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THE    STORY 

OF 

ELEANOR    LAMBERT 


THE  "  UNKNOWN"  LIBRA R\ 


THE 

"UNKNOWN"  I.IBKARY. 

i.   MLLE.  IXE.       By    I 
Falconer. 

2.  STORY     OF     ELEANOR 

LAMBERT.    By  Magda- 
len Bki  '"ki  . 

3.  MYSTERY       OF        THE 

CAMPAGNA.      By  Von 

J  11  si 


THE   "  UNKNOWN"   LIBRARY 


THE  STORY 


OF 


Eleanor  Lambert 


MAGDALEN  BROOKE 


NEW  YORK 

tCASSELL  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 
104  &  106  Fourth  Avenue 


[ 


1     IPYR1CHT,    1H91,   nv 

1  I  I     PUBL]  -HIM,   I  OMPANY. 
A 11  rights  reserved. 


THR    MERSHON   CriMI'ANV   :'RESS, 
RAH  WAY,   N.   J. 


i 


n< 


THE  STORY  OF  ELEANOR 
LAMBERT. 


I. 


FATHER   AND   DAUGHTER. 

"  For  kind 
Calm  years,  exacting  their  accompl 
Of  pain,  mature  the  mind." 

— Robert  Browning. 


AR  away  in  the  depths 
of  the  country,  in  the 
very  heart  of  England, 
where  green  meadows 
stretch  their  length 
under  the  shade  of 
mighty  trees,  so  far  from  the 
strong  sea-winds  of  the  coast  that 
they  have  leisure  to  grow  to  their 
full  height  and  girth  erect  to  the 
i 


2        :  !  0R1    01    l  l.i   INOB    I   \mi:i  i:  i  . 

skies ;  where  the  deep  lanes  ai 
a  glory  of  wild  rose,  honeysuckle, 
traveler's  joy,  wild  convolvulus 
and  briony  in  their  season,  and 
where  the  wild  strawberries,  the 
delight  of  children,  run  riot  on 
the  banks  ; — down  in  this  land  of 
peace  and  gentle,  homely  beauty, 
there  stands  a  long,  low,  red- 
brick house,  called  from  time  out 
of  mind  High  Trees,  perhaps 
because  the  great  elms  which  are 
the  glory  of  its  smiling  fields  and 
pleasant  gardens  were  famous 
even  before  the  ancestors  of  its 
present  owners  built  the  long 
irregular  brick  house  which  kept 
their  name. 

The  house  consists  of  but  two 
stories,  and  the  kitchens  and 
offices  run  back  at  one  end  apart, 
cool  and  shady,  and  ending  in 
the  dairy  with  its  delicious 
shadowed  light  and  freshness, 
scented  with  the  rich  yellow 
cream  as  it  rises  in  the  broad 
red  pans ; — a  place  to  dream  of 
under  the  fierce  suns  of  the 
tropics. 


STORY    OF    ELEANOR    LAMBERT.         3 

On  the  ground  floor,  the  rooms, 
unlike  those  of  many  houses 
built  at  about  the  same  period, 
are  large,  though  a  little  low- 
pitched  ;  with  wide,  small-paned 
windows  fitted  with  seats  on 
which  one  may  dream  away  a 
happy  hour  as  one  gazes  over 
the  old  garden,  with  its  soft, 
mossy  turf,  its  whispering  larches 
and  firs,  and  its  borders  of  damask 
and  Provence  roses,  mignonette, 
candy-tuft,  and  all  sweet,  old- 
fashioned  flowers ;  where  the 
bees  hum  at  their  much-belauded 
industry,  whiie  the  irresponsible 
butterflies  poise  and  hover  over 
each  blossom  in  turn,  to  alight 
at  length,  like  some  flattered 
beauty,  where  they  can  best  show 
off  the  marvellous,  dainty  perfec- 
tion of  their  form  and  color. 

From  the  perfumed  flower- 
garden  you  pass  by  a  short  path 
bordered  with  currant  bushes — 
thus  making  an  easy  descent  into 
a  more  prosaic  world — to  the 
walled  kitchen-garden  with  its 
old-world  iron  gate. 


STORY    OF    I  I  1    \\"K    LAMBERT. 


Prosaic,  dfd  I  say  ? 

That  old  walled  garden,  with 
its  homely  vegetables  and  its 
fruit-trees,  is  a  fairyland  of  beauty 
ami  color. 

Not  to  speak  of  its  border  of 
roses,  carnations,  poppies,  orange 
eschol/a'as,  and  purple  and  white 
Michaelmas  daisies,  who  could 
paint  properly  the  stately  grove 
of  Jerusalem  artichokes,  the 
feathery  plumes  of  the  asparagus, 
the  glorious  tints  of  the  carrot- 
leaves  as  the  year  draws  on,  the 
crimson  and  purple  of  the  beet- 
root— nay,  even  the  magic  tints 
of  the  common  cabbage  ? 

One  might  wander  for  days 
in  that  warm  and  enchanted 
paradise  of  household  vegetables, 
and  ever  discover  new  beauties. 

Then  the  beds  of  sweet  herbs  ! 
The  sage  with  its  soft-felted  leaf 
of  cold  gray-green  ;  the  thyme 
in  flower — one  mass  of  dim 
purple,  over  which  the  bees  and 
flies  sing  unending  paeans — the 
mint  with  its  strong,  green  shoots 
and  penetrating  scent  ! 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.    5 

To  be  in  that  old  garden  on  a 
sweet  summer  day,  while  the  soft 
wind  played  in  the  trees,  and  the 
little  white  clouds  sailed  miles 
above  in  the  blue  sky,  was  to  be 
reconciled  with  life  and  to  believe 
in  the  restoration  of  all  things  to 
their  original  destiny. 

Round  about  the  gardens  lie 
the  meadows,  divided  by  hedge- 
rows, where  large  trees  stand  up 
at  intervals ;  peaceful,  happy 
fields,  in  which  the  grass  grew 
to  harvest  and  the  hay  was 
mown  by  the  mower's  scythe, 
and  made  and  stacked  by  the 
farm-servants  and  the  house- 
servants,  while  master  and 
mistress  gave  a  willing  helping 
hand. 

Some  thirty-five  years  ago  the 
possessor  of  the  old  house  was  a 
maiden  lady  of  mature  years, 
the  only  remaining  member  of 
the  somewhat  numerous  family 
of  the  late  Mr.  Escote  of  High 
Trees,  whose  death,  some  five 
years  before,  had  left  his  daugh- 
ter and  dear  companion   his  sole 


6        STORY    01     ELEANOR    LAMBERT. 

heiress;  the  property  passing  at 
her  death — since  she  was  un- 
married— to  a  distant  cousin,  an 
Escote  of  another  branch. 

Mr.  Escote  of  High  Trees  had 
married,  very  early  in  life,  a 
beautiful  girl,  some  years  older 
than  himself,  and  of  extremely 
delicate  constitution. 

It  had  not  been  a  very  happy 
marriage,  for  Mrs.  Escote's 
delicacy,  which  gave  a  fictitious 
gentleness  and  softness  to  her 
manner,  was  by  no  means  a  true 
index  of  her  character,  while  this 
very  delicacy  of  health  was  a 
tremendous  engine  of  power ; 
for  who  but  a  brute — and  Mr. 
Escote  was  the  most  tender- 
hearted of  men — could  insist  on 
having  his  own  way,  even  in 
matters  of  importance,  to  the 
sound  of  a  perpetual  plaintive 
moan  over  his  cruelty  to  such  a 
sufferer  as  she  ? 

Moreover  he  loved  the  beautiful 
sufferer,  and  felt  so  keenly  her 
goodness  in  marrying  him — 
although,    as    she     had     been     a 


STORY    OF    ELEANOR    LAMBERT.         J 

penniless  orphan  living  with  an 
extremely  disagreeable  uncle,  it 
was  difficult  for  others  to  see 
where  the  goodness  lay — that  he 
could  not  be  hard  on  her.  Her 
love  for  him,  never  very  strong, 
and  consisting  principally  of 
appreciation  of  his  worship  of 
her  and  of  his  worldly  advantages, 
dwindled,  as  the  years  of  peevish 
invalidism  on  the  one  side  and 
of  patient  kindness  on  the  other, 
went  on,  into  the  merest  thread 
of  remembered  sentiment. 

Of  their  five  children,  all 
except  Anne,  the  eldest-born, 
inherited  their  mother's  weak 
constitution  and  died  in  infancy 
or  early  childhood.  In  Mr. 
Escote's  great  love  for  his  ailing 
wife,  he  hid  deep  down  in  his 
■  large  heart  the  grief  the  succes- 
sive loss  of  each  little  cherished 
fair-haired  lad  or  lass  caused 
him  ; — for  must  not  the  mother's 
grief  be  deeper  far  than  his? 

And  yet  it  may  be  doubted, 
for  the  "grief  that  does  not 
speak  "  wastes  no  power  in  out- 


8       STORV    "i     i  ii   \No|.    LAMB1  R  i. 


ward  expression,  but  uses  all  its 
weapons  to  rend  its  hiding-place. 

Mrs.     Escotc      lamented      her 
losses  loudly,  and  as  if  they  were 
but    part   and    parcel   of  the   con- 
spiracy of    tilings    in    general    t<i 
add    to     her     sufferings;     hut     it 
was    noticeable     that     while     her 
husband's   heart   clung   to    their 
sole      remaining      child     with      a 
passion    of    love    and     tenderness 
that  he  did  not  strive  to  conceal, 
the     mother    seemed     rather    to 
resent    in     her    the     health     and 
strength    which      had     preserved 
her    from    the    fate    of     her    four 
little  brothers  and  sisters,  and   as 
she  grew  older  and   developed    a 
wholesome  robustness  and  sturdy 
will  of  her  own,  was  often   heard 
to    exclaim    that    she    could     not 
imagine  how  she  could  ever   have 
had  a  great  rough  child  like    that 
— it   was   unfortunate   that   Anne 
took  so  entirely  after  her  father! 
This     last     accusation     was     un- 
doubtedly true,  for  Anne,  instead 
of       inheriting        Mrs.       Escot* 
slender,      swaying      figure,      her 


STORY    OF    ELEANOR    LAMBERT.        9 

beautiful  features  and  fragile 
bloom,  was  tall  and  large,  and 
formed  for  strength  rather  than 
grace,  like  her  father,  from  whom 

ic  had  also  inherited  the  clear, 
true   gray  eyes,   shaded    by   dark 

urling  lashes — the  only  beauty 
of  either  face. 

When  Anne  was  about  eighteen, 

cr  mother's  fretful  wail  of  life 
wore     itself     slowly     away     into 

ilence,  and  tended  and  com- 
forted in  the  last  dread  days  by 
the  same  unchanging  love  of 
her  husband — which  somehow 
seemed  to  grow  more  precious 
now  that  it  could  hold  her  so 
little  longer — and  nursed  by  the 
capable  and  willing  hands  of  the 
daughter,  whose  health  and 
strength  seemed  now  to  have 
some  virtue  in  them,  the  poor 
woman  sank  quietly  to  rest. 

Mr.  Escote  mourned  his  wife 
with  the  sorrow  of  a  faithful 
heart  which  finds  in  itself  all  the 
springs  of  loss.  He  forgot  in 
her  all  but  his  own  love  for  the 
beautiful   wife    of  his   youth  and 


IO     STORY    "I     I  l.F.ANOR    LAMBERT. 

the  bereaved  mother  of  his  dea< 
babies ;  while  his  tenderness  fo 
his  daughter  seemed,  if  possible, 
to  grow  even  greater  now  tha 
she  was  the  sole  living  rccipien 
of  it. 

In  the  years  that  passed  befon 
his    death — at    which      time    hi 
daughter  was   past   middle  lif< 
the  companionship  between  then 
grew     ever      closer     and      closer 
Their    tastes     were     the     same 
their     sympathies     alike  ;      thci 
opinions     differing      enough      at 
times  to  rouse  discussion,  whicl 
their    common     basis     of    mora 
nature  kept    from   any  touch  of 
bitterness   or   malice  ;  and    whci 
he   died,  she  lost  father,   dearcs 
friend,  staunchest       comrade,    in 
one. 

Into  Anne  Escotc's  peaceful 
life  but  one  great  heart  trouble 
had  come,  and  that  wound  had 
so  long  healed  over  that  now  it 
only  ached  at  times  with  an  in- 
d<  finite  pain  that  was  like  the 
ache  of  life  itself.  The  wound 
had  been  given  so  long  ago,  and 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.   II 

the  giver  had  proved  so  unworthy, 
that  it  was  more  a  lament  over 
the  dear  lost  sentiment  than  the 
lost  lover. 

When  Anne  was  in  her  twenty- 
first  year,  a  far-away  cousin, 
whom  she  had  not  seen  since  he 
was  a  schoolboy,  having  returned 
invalided  from  India,  was  invited 
to  spend  part  of  his  sick-leave 
at  High  Trees,  and  the  natural 
result  speedily  followed.  Anne, 
with  her  vigorous  health  and 
plain  face,  was  attracted  at  once 
by  the  handsome  invalid,  who 
let  her  wait  upon  him  hand  and 
foot,  thanking  her  with  honeyed 
phrases,  while  he  dawdled  away 
a  pleasant  summer  in  that  de- 
licious paradise  of  garden  and 
meadow. 

They  sat  in  the  walled  fruit- 
garden,  he  reading  poetry  to  her 
when  the  fancy  seized  him — he 
had  a  pretty  taste  for  verse — 
while  she  plucked  for  him  the 
ripest  strawberries,  or  hanging 
bunches  of  the  beautiful  pale 
pink   Champagne    currants    from 


12      STORV     01      I   I   I    INOR     I. AMI:!  R  I  . 


the  bush  which  had  been  looked 
upon  as  her  especial  property 
since  her  babyhood. 

How  was  she  to  know  thai 
Captain  Dick  Lambert  had  said 
as  pretty  things  to  a  score  of 
others  before  she  ever  set  eyes 
on  him,  or  had  looked  with  those 
appealing  blue  eyes  of  his  into 
as  many  ladies'  faces  with  much 
the  same  expression,  sure  of  ob- 
taining an  answering  flutter  in 
the  heart  of  each  ? 

However,  in  this  case  Captain 
Lambert  really  meant  business, 
for  Miss  Escotc  was  an  heiress 
in  her  way;  and  an  extravagant 
and  impecunious  younger  son, 
with  but  a  small  allowance  be- 
yond his  pay,  must  not  be  too 
particular — though  the  girl  cer- 
tainly was  plain  and  awkward. 

Still,  since  he  could  not  hope 
to  get  High  Trees  without  her, 
he  must  make  up  his  mind  to  it  ; 
so  he  proposed  in  form,  and  was 
accepted  with  joy  and  tender 
worship  by  the  woman  who 
thought  it  wonderful  that  such  a 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.   13 

resplendent  hero  should  love  her, 
and  who  was  worth  a  million  of 
such  as  she. 

Then    there    came    a   season — 
alas  !  a  short  and  fleeting  season 
— of    happiness;    and    then — Mr. 
Escote,    in   one  of  his    rare    vis- 
its to    London,  heard    rumors  of 
his   intended    son-in-law's   doings 
which  aroused   suspicions    in    his 
mind,  suspicions  but  too  forcibly 
proved    to  be  correct  ;  and    after 
weeks  of  agonized  revolt  against 
the     horrible      truth      and     wild 
struggles  to   believe    still    in    her 
hero's     tarnished      fame,     during 
which  even  her  father  seemed  to 
be  her  enemy,  Anne's  brave  mind 
consented  to  face  the  hard  facts, 
and  the  unworthy  lover  was  dis- 
missed, and  even  his  name  passed 
away    into    a    silence    as    of   the 
grave. 

After  events  proved  the  de- 
cision to  have  been  the  only 
right  one,  and  as  the  years  went 
on,  the  thought  of  her  lover's 
unworthiness,  although  in  one 
way   it   poisoned    the   wound,   in 


I  i     STORY   OF    1  li   \\"i:    LAMBERT. 

another  helped  the  high-souled 
woman  to  recover,  and  years  be- 
fore her  father's  death  left  her 
desolate,  the  thought  of  Richard 
Lambert  had  become  but  a  rare 
visitant. 


II. 

love's   legacy. 

"  Who  made  shall  mend 
In  the  higher  sphere  to  -which yearnings  tend.1 
— Robert  Browning. 


NE  bright  morning,  early 
in  February,  five  years 
after  her  father's  death, 
Miss  Escote  sat  in  her 
cheerful  morning-room, 
an  open  letter  in  her 
hand,  and  a  very  unusual  expres- 
sion of  trouble  on  her  kindly 
countenance. 

Time,  which  "  delves  the 
parallels  of  beauty's  brow,"  had 
dealt  gently  with  Anne  Escote's 
homely  face.  The  passage  of 
years  and  a  life's  experience  had 
softened  the  somewhat  hard  out- 

15 


1 1.       »TOR\     OF     ELEANOR    LAMBERT, 

lines  of  her  youth,  and  tin.  honest, 
clear  gray  eyes  looked  out  upon 
the  world  as  frankly  as  in  her 
girlhood,  but  with  less  disdain  of 
what     in i1- lit     fall     short     of    her 

O 

approval,  and  more  tenderness 
for  grief  and  pain  and  the  thou- 
sand natural  shocks  of  life. 

The  room  she  sat  in  was  up- 
stairs, leading  by  one  door  into 
her  bedroom  and  by  another 
into  the  long  polished  oak  corri- 
dor which  ran  along  the  upper 
story  of  the  old  house.  It  was  a 
comfortable,  cosy  retreat,  dedi- 
cated to  her  use  for  reading, 
working,  housekeeping  duties, 
and  practising — for  Miss  Escote 
was  a  fine  performer  on  the 
pianoforte  —  ever  since  her 
mother's  death  had  made  her 
mistress  of  the  house.  A  bright 
fire  of  wood  and  coal  burned  on 
the  low  hearth,  and  the  winter 
sunshine  fell  with  a  clear,  cheer- 
ful radiance  across  the  old  oak 
floor  with  its  Turkey  carpet. 
Outside,  the  garden  and  country 
were  an  enchanted  winter   Eden, 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.   1 7 

There  had  been  a  thick,  white 
mist  in  the  night,  followed  by  a 
sharp  frost,  and  now  every  branch 
and  twig  of  the  great  trees  was 
thickly  rimmed  with  hoar-frost, 
whose  minute  crystals  sparkled 
like  diamonds  in  the  sun;  the 
edge  of  each  evergreen  leaf  wore 
the  same  gleaming  white  circlet, 
and  every  blade  of  grass  on  the 
smooth  lawn  had  turned  into  a 
stiff  and  shining  little  white  spear. 
Against  the  pale  blue  sky,  oppo- 
site the  sun,  whose  rays  lighted 
them  into  radiance,  the  high  trees 
stood  up  in  the  misty  wintry  at- 
mosphere, with  which  their  deli- 
cate frost-laden  tracery  mingled 
in  a  delicious  haze  of  white  and 
palest,  purest  blue,  as  in  an  en- 
chanted dream. 

Some  small  domestic  incident 
had  made  Miss  Escote  late  that 
morning  for  her  usually  punctual 
eight  o'clock  breakfast,  and  she 
had  left  her  letters  for  quiet 
reading  in  her  sitting-room. 

There  were  two  or  three,  and 
of  these  it  so  happened  that  the 


iS      5T0W    01    ill   \.\<>K    LAMBERT. 

last  she  opened  was  the  only 
one  of  any  importance  ;  but  just 
that  last  letter  was  destined  to 
alter  the  whole  course  of  her 
solitary  life. 

The  writing  on  its  cover  woke 
some  unformed  hint  of  memory 
in  her  mind,  but  still  she  failed 
to  recognize  it,  and  opened  it 
without  any  thrill  of  sentiment. 

Yet  she  had  once  prized,  and 
laughed,  and  wept  over  a  slim 
packet  of  love-letters  in  that  very 
handwriting  —  before  dissipation 
and  degradation  had  altered  its 
character. 

"Dear  Cousin  Nancy,"  the 
letter  began,  and  Anne's  hand 
dropped  with  it  on  to  her  knee, 
and  her  eyes  gazed  blankly  out 
into  the  garden,  while  her  heart 
gave  a  throb  that  would  have 
become  it  in  her  youth. 

"  Nancy  !  "  She  had  not  heard 
the  name — given  to  her  by  her 
cousin  and  lover  to  modify  what 
he  called  the  stiffness  of  her  own 
plain  one — for  nearly  thirty  years. 
No  one  else  had  ever  called  her 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.   19 

Nancy,  but  the  little  word  bridged 
over  the  great  gulf  of  grief  and 
loss  and  time  that  lay  between 
the  present  and  that  brief  dream 
of  happiness,  and  brought  girlish 
:ears  to  her  eyes. 

Outside  the  window,  high  up 
imong  the  bare  branches  of  an 
elm  tree,  a  robin  was  singing  the 
blithe  carol  which  rejoices  the 
heart  of  winter  ;  but  Anne's  ears 
were  deaf  to  her  favorite  song- 
ster as  her  eyes  were  unwitting 
of  the  pageant  of  white  beauty 
spread  out  before  them. 

Instead  of  the  white  world 
around  her,  she  saw  a  garden — a 
kitchen  garden,  but  the  Garden 
of  Paradise  all  the  same — full  of 
summer  sunshine  and  the  fra- 
grance of  flower  and  fruit,  and 
therein  a  man  and  a  woman — 
could  it  ever  have  been  herself  ? 
— and  instead  of  the  robin's  win- 
ter song  she  heard  the  infinitely 
sweeter  music  of  her  lover's 
avowal  of  his  love — to  Nancy. 

And  she  forgot  all  that  had 
come     after — his     worthlessness, 


20     STOl    i     "i     I  i  i   VNOF    i   \Mia  RT. 

his  disloyalty  everything  ;  and, 
bowing  her  head,  she  laid  her 
pure  lips  to  the  paper  and  kissed 
the  dcai-  old  words  for  the  old 
love's  sake.  The  foolish  action 
brought  her  to  herself,  and  she- 
wiped  her  eyes  and  went  on  with 
the  letter  quietly. 

"  Dear      Cousin        Nancy  : 

Though  you  have  not  much 
reason  to  remember  me  with 
affection,  I  write  to  you  because 
you  are — or  were,  anyhow — about 
the  best  woman  it  has  ever  been 
my  luck  to  meet,  and  I  am  dead 
beat  at  last.  I  am  not  quite 
such  a  cur  as  to  ask  yon  for  help 
for  myself,  but  my  wife  is  a  good 
girl,  and  if  after  I  am  gone  you 
would  be  a  friend  to  her,  it 
would  ease  my  last  days  on 
earth. 

"  Richard  Lambert." 

His      wife  !       Dick    Lambert's 
wife  !     I  low  strange  it  seemed  ! 
Miss  Escote  had  heard  rumors 


STO~RY    OF    ELEANOR    LAMBERT.      2  1 

of  her  cousin's  doings  at  wide 
intervals  during  the  past  years — 
rumors  but  little  to  his  credit — 
reports  of  gambling,  drinking, 
and  worse  ;  tales  of  debt,  and 
disgrace  with  his  own  people, 
with  no  brighter  side  of  the  pict- 
ure to  justify  her  old  belief  in 
the  fascinating  soldier.  But  of 
a  wife  she  had  heard  nothing, 
and  she  concluded  that  the  mar- 
riage must  have  been  a  recent 
one,  since  he  spoke  of  his  wife  as 
a  girl. 

Why,  he  must  be  a  man  of 
five-and-fifty  now  !  Would  she 
know  him  if  she  saw  him  ?  Had 
all  the  light  gone  from  the  blue 
eyes  which  stole  her  heart  away 
of  old  ?  And  he  was  ill,  dying 
perhaps,  and  in  poverty.  Dick 
dying,  and  she  so  strong  and 
well,  and  full  of  life  ! 

She  rose,  a  sudden  determina- 
tion of  purpose  shining  in  her 
eyes,  and  rang  the  bell.  Hannah 
Print,  her  chief  serving-maid,  a 
model  of  propriety  and  virtuous 
self-importance,  answered  it. 


22      .-  I  <»K\     ()|      III   ANOR     I.  \MJ.|   B  I  . 


"  Hannah,"  said  Miss  Escote, 
"  I  am  going  to  London  by  the 
mi  d-d  ay  train." 

"  To  London,  ma'am  !  "  echoed 
Hannah,  in  a  tone  of  respectful 
but  determined  expostulation. 
"  You'll  catch  your  death  of  cold 
in  them  draughty  trains  this 
freezing  day." 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  her  mis- 
tress,  "  but  anyhow  I  must  go. 
Pack  me  a  few  necessaries  as 
quickly  as  possible,  like  a  good 
soul,  while  I  speak  to  Clarke." 
(Clarke  was  Miss  Escote's  fac- 
totum.) 

"  Do  you  think  of  staying  any 
length  of  time,  Miss  Anne?" 
went  on  the  precise  Hannah, 
with  a  still  stronger  hint  of  dis- 
approval in  her  thin  voice ;  for 
Miss  Escote's  ways  were,  as  a 
rule,  those  of  order  and  propriety, 
and  such  an  inversion  of  them  as 
a  sudden  and  unprepared-for  visit 
to  London  was  not  to  be  passed 
over  without  comment.  On  such 
occasions  Hannah,  whose  pre- 
cision and  prudishness    concealed 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMDERT.   23 

a  deep  love  and  respect  for  the 
mistress  she  was  growing  old 
with,  expected  to  feel  all  the 
importance  of  lady's-maid  and 
confidential  attendant.  It  was 
she  who  settled  what  garments 
her  mistress  ought  to  take  with  , 
her,  who  saw  to  her  wraps  and 
luggage,  and  generally  gave  her- 
self such  airs  as  who  would  say, 
"  Keep  in  your  places,  you  igno- 
rant country  wenches  who  are 
not  going  to  the  gay  metrop- 
olis ;  "  as  were  wont  to  move 
the  younger  and  "less  respectful 
of  the  maids  to  speak  tartly  of 
"  that  ridiculous  old  Hannah  ! 
there  ain't  no  a-bearing  of  her ! 
as  if  anybody  in  London  would 
look  at  her  !  " 

"Will  you  require  me,  ma'am, 
to  accompany  you  ? 

Anne  thought  a  moment,  and 
then  said,  gently,  to  soothe 
her  handmaiden's  easily  roused 
pride  : 

"  Not  this  time,  I  think,  Han- 
nah ;  my  stay  is  so  uncertain. 
It  may  be  only  for  a  night,  or  at 


-'  1      STOfcl    01     ill    VNOR    LAMB]  i    I  . 


most  two,  so  I  think  it  is  scarcely 
worth  while." 

Hannah  sniffed. 

"  Oh,  of  course,  Miss  Anne, 
you  know  best,"  she  said,  stiffly, 
and  was  silent,  and  then  set 
about  her  preparations  for  her 
mistress's  journey  with  an  air  of 
virtuous  resignation  that  made 
Anne  smile  in  spite  of  a  heavy 
heart. 

The  early  winter  darkness  had 
fallen,  and  the  morning  of  en- 
chantment in  the  country  ended 
in  a  cold  clinging  fog  in  London, 
when  Miss  Escote,  having  left 
her  light  luggage  at  her  hotel, 
set  forth  in  a  four-wheeled  cab 
to  seek  the  address  in  a  small 
street  at  Cambcrwcll  which  Cap- 
tain Lambert  had  given  in  hi^ 
letter. 

Of  all  mocks  of  conveyance 
there  is  perhaps  none  which  lends 
itself  less  to  the  comfortable  jour- 
neying of  an  afflicted  spirit.  To 
a  heart  feasting  on  its  own  joy, 
or  a  mind  sunk  in  apathetic 
indolence,     there     are     perchance 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.   25 

alleviations  in  their  own  con- 
ditions to  the  discomforts  of  the 
vehicle ;  but  to  the  soul  in  grief 
or  suspense,  filled  with  a  sick 
longing  to  reach  the  end  of  the 
journey  and  its  goal — if  only  a 
terrible  certainty — the  slow  jog- 
trot, the  ceaseless  rattle  of  the 
ill-constructed  window-panes,  the 
perpetual  slipping  of  small  pack- 
ages off  the  sloping  back  seat 
— all  form  at  last  a  madden- 
ing weariness,  which  moralists 
may  condemn,  while  they  suffer 
from  it. 

At  last,  however,  the  sorry 
steed  drew  up  before  a  mean- 
looking  little  house — number  20 
in  a  row  of  fifty — each  one  so 
exactly  the  facsimile  of  its 
neighbor  that  it  seemed  won- 
derful the  owners  should  have 
any  definite  idea  of  proprietorship, 
and  Anne,  paying  the  cab-driver 
about  double  his  fare,  which  he 
demanded  from  a  shrewd  convic- 
tion that  the  lady  was  not  a 
Londoner,  and  would  not  know 
the  difference,  went  up  the  steep, 


lG     STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT. 

dirty  steps,  and   knocked    at   the 
door. 

A  dull  pain  was  at  her  heart, 
mingled  with  the  nervous  agi- 
tation which  the  thought  of  the 
nearness  of  the  man  whose 
presence  had  once  set  her  pulses 
wildly  beating,  aroused  within 
her. 

A  longish  interval  passed  be- 
fore there  came  any  response, 
and  she  knocked  again,  still 
without  effect. 

Then  she  heard  a  door  open 
and  a  woman's  voice  call  pet- 
tishly, "Mrs.  Smith!'  Mrs. 
Smith  !  there's  somebody  knocked 
twice  !  " 

Mrs.  Smith  must  apparently 
have  heard  the  second  summons, 
and,  thinking  it  the  first,  made 
no  hurry  to  answer  it,  after  the 
manner  of  her  hard-worked  and 
over-driven  class. 

Anne  heard  her  voice  as  she 
came  along  the  passage  grum- 
bling at  the  unreasonableness  of 
visitors  in  general,  and  of  this 
one     in     particular,    for    thinking 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.   27 

that  she  had    nothing  to  do  all 
lay   but     answer    that    "  dratted 
oor. 

Her  heart  sank  at  the  mean 
urroundings,  and  a  half  hope 
danced  through  her  mind  that 
it  might  prove  a  wrong  address, 
md  that  she  might  be  spared  the 
iight  of  her  old  love  in  such  com- 
pany. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  stout, 
ill-dressed  woman,  with  dark, 
coarse  hair  waving  on  her 
forehead  in  that  stiff  yet  greasy 
style  which  is  affected  by  so 
many  women  of  the  lodging- 
house-keeping  class,  stood  in 
the  narrow  entry.  She  had 
probably  been  prepared  with  a 
not  over  polite  inquiry  as  to 
icr  visitor's  business  ;  but  Anne's 
appearance,  very  unlike  any- 
thing she  had  expected  to  see, 
stayed  her  speech,  and  she  only 
stared  aggressively. 

"  Does  Captain    Lambert    live 
here  ?  "  asked  Anne. 

"  Yes,  he  do,"   answered    Mrs. 
Smith,     sharply.       "And      what 


fOm      "I      I   II    A.MiK     I. AMII    I     I  . 


may   you    want    of    'im,   may    I 
hask?" 

"  I  am  his  cousin,"  Anne 
began. 

"Oh,  indeed!"  interpolated 
Ahs.  Smith,  apparently  for  the 
sake  of  saying  something  un- 
pleasant. 

••  I  heard  he  was  ill,"  Anne 
went  on. 

"Ill  enough,"  said  Mrs.  Smith, 
speaking  volubly  now,  and  raising 
her  voice  as  if  to  impress  her 
words  on  some  unseen  listener. 
"  But  that  ain't  no  reason  why  I 
shouldn't  be  paid  my  rent  as  is 
owing  for  six  weeks  or  more 
Hill  or  not  hill,  they'll  'avc  to 
pack  before  the  week's  out  as 
sure  as  my  name's  Jane  Smith  ! 
Not  that  I've  anything  to  say 
against  the  ("apt  in.  'E's  a 
pleasant  spoken  gentleman,  'e 
is;  but  I'm  not  a-goin'  to  stand 
any  sauce  from  Vr,  Mrs.  Lam- 
1)'  it  or  no  Mrs.  Lambert,  and  so 
I  tell  'er." 

"  Your  rent  shall  be  paid,"  said 
Anne,  in    her  serious,   full-toned 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.   29 


voice.  "  Take  this  card  in  to 
Captain  Lambert,  and  say  his 
cousin  is  here." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am, 
I'm  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Smith,  in 
a  very  different  tone  ;  "  any  one 
can  see  as  the  Captain  is  a  real 
gentleman.     If    I'd    knowed    you 

was  his  cousin " 

:'  Please  go  directly,"  inter- 
rupted Miss  Escote;  and  the 
woman  went. 

From  the  small  room  opening 
off  the  passage,  so  close  to  the 
front  door  that  Anne  could  catch 
a  glimpse  of  its  mean  and  sordid 
interior,  came  the  sound  of  Mrs. 
Smith's  words,  and  then  a  man's 
voice,  thin  and  weak,  saying, 
"Ask  her  to  come  in  here." 
And  Anne  entered,  and  looked 
once  again  upon  the  man  who 
had  made  her  youth  desolate 
and  taken  away  the  glory  of  her 
prime. 

By  the  small  fire  he  sat  in  a 
shabby  easy-chair  —  old  before 
his  time,  a  gray-haired,  bowed 
figure;  his  face  lined  and  blurred 


30     ■   i  ■  'i  \     Ol     mi    VNOR    LAMBERT. 

by  dissipation  and  vice;  his  thin 
hands  nerveless  and  powerless; 
clothed  he,  the  dandy  of  old! — 
in  a  worn  dressing-gown  which  but 
ill  kept  out  the  cold,  foggy  air. 
Only  his  eyes — the  beautiful  blue 
eyes  of  Anne's  remembrance  — 
kept  something  of  their  old  color 
and  expression,  and  it  was  not 
until  he  raised  them  half-shamedly 
to  his  cousin's  face  that  she 
recognized  in  him  any  least  like- 
ness to  the  gay  and  gallant  soldier 
who  had  walked  with  her  under 
the  trees  in  Eden. 

She  went  toward  him  with 
both  hands  outstretched. 

"  Dick  !  "  she  said. 

No  other  greeting  would  come  ; 
and.  since  there  is  but  little  to 
record  to  the  credit  of  Captain 
Richard  Lambert,  let  it  be  re- 
membered to  his  account  that  he 
found  nothing  to  say  in  reply, 
but  that  two  large  tears  rose  in 
the  blue  eyes  and  fell  clown  the 
worn  cheeks  while  he  held  the 
hands  of  the  woman  he  had 
wronged  so  deeply,  and  felt  down 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.   3 1 

in  what  remained  of  his  conscience 
that  he  was  a  sorry  scoundrel, 
unworthy  of  a  good  woman's 
faithful  memory. 

A  slight  movement  behind  her 
made  Anne  turn,  and,  leaning 
against  the  smoke  -  darkened 
chimney-piece,  stood  a  tall  girl 
gazing  at  the  visitor  with  im- 
mense dark  eyes,  which  seemed 
to  burn  with  an  inner  fire  of  their 
own,  from  out  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  faces  that  Miss  Escote 
had  ever  seen.  The  skin  was  of 
clear  olive  paleness ;  the  nose 
straight  and  fine;  the  beautiful 
mouth  curved  into  a  perfect 
outline ;  while  the  shining  eyes 
were  fringed  and  overhung  with 
blackest  lashes  and  brows,  and 
the  wealth  of  raven  hair  broke 
all  the  restraints  of  that  day  of 
smooth-combed  locks,  and  waved 
over  the  low  forehead  in  enchant- 
ing little  twirls  and  tendrils.  Tall 
and  finely-made,  notwithstanding 
her  shabby  gown,  the  girl  kept 
the  air  of  neatness  and  grace 
acquired    by    the   "young    lady" 


ja      ■  I  •  'I    .     "I     ELEANOB     LAMBERT, 

of  the  modern  shop,  although 
the  dark  fiery  face  told  a  tale  of 
inherited     Spanish,     or     perhaps 

gypsy,  blood,  very  much  out  of 
keeping  with  such  a  destiny. 

It  was  a  strong  and  good  face, 
too,  in  spite  of  a  certain  expres- 
sion of  half-jealous  defiance  now 
visible  on  it.  Not  personal 
jealousy  of  the  cousin,  an  old 
woman  in  her  young  eyes,  of 
whose  youth's  history  she  knew 
nothing,  and  whose  possible 
rivalry  with  regard  to  her  gentle- 
man husband  she  was  not  likely 
to  fear,  but  a  kind  of  uneasy 
jealousy  of  her  as  a  lady,  one 
of  his  own  class  and  so  out  of 
her  own  sphere  (not  that  she 
consciously  used  so  fine  a  word), 
mingled  possibly  with  a  proud 
defiance  of  Mrs.  Smith's  inten- 
tionally loud-spoken  allusion  to 
her  "sauce." 

She  was  proud  of  her  husband, 
even  loved  him  after  a  fashion, 
partly  because  'of  this  same 
gentle-manhood  -  save  the  mark  ! 
— and    his     difference     from     the 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.  $$ 

other  lodgers  in  the  mean  abode 
whither  drink  and  debt  had  led 
him,  and  in  a  garret  of  which  she 
spent  the  time  not  devoted  to  her 
daily  work  behind  the  counter 
of  a  neighboring  haberdasher's. 
Partly,  too,  because  on  some 
occasion,  when  the  offensive 
gallantry  of  another  lodger  had 
roused  her  proud  spirit  to  fury, 
some  ancient  remnant  of  regard 
for  women's  delicacy  had  moved 
Captain  Lambert  to  champion 
the  girl  against  her  admirer,  and 
so  to  win  the  gratitude  that  is  so 
near  to  love  in  her  sex. 

She  had  known  no  education 
in  the  true  sense  of  that  much- 
abused*  term.  Except  for  the 
acquired  quickness  at  accounts 
necessary  for  her  calling,  and 
knowledge  enough  to  read  and 
write  passably,  her  mind  was 
fallow  so  far  as  learning  went  ; 
and  although  she  had  acquired, 
too,  the  habit  of  speaking  with  a 
certain  air  of  refinement  and 
grammatical  precision,  in  mo- 
ments of  excitement  and  natural 


34       i  ■  'i  \    "i    iii  \.m  >K  i.  ■ 


speech  she  was  wont  to  relapse 
into  .1  stronger  and  more  ex- 
pressive vernacular,  and  even  to 
show    a     tendency   to   trip  over 

that  perennial  Stumbling-block, 
the  letter  "  II,"  which  argued  a 
painfully-mastered  use  of  it. 

As  Miss  Escote  turned  to- 
ward her  and  caught  her  burning 
glance,  Captain  Lambert  said  : 

"Come  here,  Nell,  and  speak- 
to  my  cousin,  Miss  Escote." 

Anne  held  out  her  hand  and 
took  the  girl's  reluctant  fingers. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  in  her 
kind,  true  voice,  "  I  am  glad  to 
know  you  ;  I  hope  we  may  be 
friends." 

Nell's  great  eyes  looked  »search- 
ingly  into  her  face,  and  then  she 
said,  without  any  fierceness: 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Escote,  I'm 
sure." 

Mrs.  Smith  received  her  rent 
that  night,  and  notice  that  the 
visitor  would  return  on  the  mor- 
row and  remove  her  lodgers 
to  larger  and  more  airy  rooms — 
not    far    off  ;    for  Captain    Lam- 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.   35 

belt's  days  were  numbered,  and 
anything  but  the  shortest  journey 
was  impossible  to  him  until  he 
should  start  on  the  longest  one 
of  all. 

After  all  was  settled,  and  Miss 
Escote  was  parting  with  Nell  in 
the  dirty  little  passage,  Nell  told 
her  how  her  husband  had  fallen 
on  the  frozen  pavement  some 
weeks  ago,  and  how  "  he  had  been 
hurt  in  his  inside,  and  the  doctor 
had  said  he'd  never  get  over  it," 
and  how  she  thought,  though  she 
had  never  "  let  on  "  to  him,  that 
"  he'd  had  a  drop  too  much,  poor 
fellow  !  " 

She  said  it  all  quite  simply, 
seeing  that  it  was  matter  quite 
beyond  discussion  that  he  had 
been  "  a  bit  wild,"  and  with  no 
intention  of  wounding  the  kind 
heart  that  was  feeling  keenly  the 
terrible  inevitableness  of  this 
ending  of  her  sometime  lover's 
weak  and  wicked  life.  Anne's  eyes, 
looking  away  into  the  long-gone 
years  and  their  vanished  Eden, 
fell    unconsciously  on  the    girl's 


3<>       1*01 i  i  wini  i  i . 


hand.       The    dark     face     flushed 
hotly. 

"  <  >h,      we're      marru  d 
enough,"    she     said  ;      "  I'm     not 
that  sort." 

Mi  ote's  fair  skin  showed 

as  hot  .t  flush  of  shame. 

"  I  never  imagined  " —  she 
stammered,  "  I  beg  your  par- 
don -what  can  have  made  you 
think  I  di\l " 

"  You  were  looking  at  me  so 
oddly,"  the  girl  began,  and  then 
smiled  a  smile  which  glorified 
her  beautiful  face.  "He  said 
you  were  good,"  she  said,  "  and 
so  you  are  !  " 

Miss  Escote  bent  and  kissed 
her. 

"We  shall  be  friends,  I  see, 
my  dear,"  she  said,  "  and  poor 
Dick  shall  die  in  peace." 

And  so  he  did.  Tended  by 
loving  hands  of  wife  and  old 
sweetheart;  away  from  the  mean 
surroundings  of  the  squalid  lodg- 
ing-house,and  in  ease  and  comfort: 
penitent,  let  us  hope— so  far  as 
such  a  nature   is  capable  of  peni- 


STORY    OF    ELEANOR    LAMBERT.      37 

tence — in  some  small  measure 
for  his  ill-spent  life,  and  with 
perfect  trust  in  his  cousin's 
promise  that  the  young  wife  who 
had  somehow  won  the  last  flick- 
ering affections  of  his  light  and 
worn-out  heart,  and  her  unborn 
child,  should  find  a  home  with 
her  when  he  was  gone,  the 
fascinating  Dick  Lambert  drifted 
peaceably  away  from  a  world 
that  had  forgotten  him  and  the 
two  women  who  had  loved  him. 

One  day,  a  little  before  the 
end,  while  his  wife  rested  in 
another  room,  and  Anne  sat 
working  by  his  bedside  as  he  lay 
awake  but  silent,  she  felt  his 
eyes  so  persistently  upon  her, 
that  at  last  she  raised  her  own  to 
find  him  gazing  at  her  with  an 
expression  of  such  intense  and 
sad  appeal  that  she  answered  it 
as  if  he  had  spoken. 

"Dick!"  she  said,  gently,  "I 
forgave  everything  long  ago." 

A  feeble  sob  shook  his  weak 
frame. 

"Nancy,"  he  whispered  hoarsely, 


rOR\     "I     ELEANOR     i  I'. 

•I  was  a  scoundrel — 1  am  un- 
worthy— and  you   arc  an  angel." 

He  paused,  with  his  hollow 
eyes  still    upon   her  face.     Then: 

"  Nancy — will  you  kiss  me  once 
before  I  die — and  say  again  you 
forgive  me  ?  " 

"  I  forgive  you  from  my  deepest 
soul,  Dick  ;"  and,  bending  over 
him,  she  laid  her  lips  to  the  dying 
sinner's  haggard  cheek. 

When,  after  laying  Richard 
Lambert  in  his  grave,  Miss 
Escote  returned  to  her  own 
home,  there  went  with  her 
a  dark',  mournful-eyed  young 
widow,  whose  rebellious  waves 
of  hair  refused  to  keep  in  decent 
hiding  under  her  cap,  and  to- 
ward whom  the  prim  Hannah 
manifested  a  virtuous  but  con- 
descending and  kindly  disap- 
proval. 

The  yellow  stars  of  the  leafless 
jasmine  were  making  the  cottages 
gay  when  Miss"  Escote  and  her 
charge  arrived  at  High  Trees, 
and   Anne's   heart,   sad   with   the 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.   39 


memory  of  the  wasted  life,  and 
tender  with  the  thought  of  the 
death-bed  of  her  cousin,  was  im- 
mensely cheered  and  comforted 
by  the  sight  of  the  dear  and  ac- 
customed things  of  home.  The 
peace  and  order  of  her  house — 
the  growing  beauty  of  the  spring 
in  her  garden  and  meadows — re- 
lieved the  strain  of  feeling  of  the 
last  few  weeks,  and  here,  away 
from  the  dull  surroundings  of  his 
inglorious  end,  she  could  think  of 
the  dead  man  with  nothing  but 
tender  grief,  and  hope  that  the 
other  life  might  retrieve  the 
failures  and  sins  of  the  one  he 
had  spent  so  ill,  and  that  here- 
after she  might  perchance  see 
him  what  she  had  believed  him 
in  their  youth. 

Meanwhile  the  poor  young 
widow  took  up  the  greater  part 
of  her  time  and  care. 

Not  that  Nell  was  a  weak  or 
poor-spirited  woman  who  spent 
her  days  in  vain  lamentations 
over  her  dead  husband.  She 
grieved   for  him,  it   is   true  ;    and 


4°     STORV    01     l  l.i    INOR    l   ' 


although  she  spoke  quite  openly 
and  unreservedly  to  Miss  Escote 

of   him    and    his    failings,    it    was 
always  with  affection  and  regret. 
T<     Anne   herself  she    showed    a 
passion   of  love— for  she    was    a 
passionate  creature  at  heart,— not 
belyii         her      dark     eyes      and 
south  in       aspect.        Everything 
Miss   Escote  did  was  right  in  her 
eyes  ;  the   gentlest   hint  from  her 
as  to  grammar  or  social  behavior 
six-  treasured  up  and  acted  on  to 
her  very  best  ability,  and  in  these 
and  other  matters  she  showed  an 
adaptability   and   a    strength    of 
mind     and     brain     which     proved 
her   to    be    a    women    of   a    very 
original     and       uncommon     kind. 
Education,    as    I    have    said,    she 
had  none  ;    but   since  Anne  loved 
books,    Nell    read    too,  and    many 
a  time  the  shrewd   comments   she 
made    with    an    utterly    unbiased 
criticism,  struck    Anne  with   ad- 
miration   for    lier     undeveloped 
powers.     Morally,      she     had      .1 
strong,   straightforward     code   of 
conduct  ;  what  she  thought  wrong 


STORY    OF    ELEANOR    LAMBERT.      41 

nothing  could  induce  her  to  do. 
From  training  and  association, 
her  code  of  morals  would  prob- 
ably have  seemed  deficient  to 
more  delicately  nurtured  women, 
who  cling  to  many  things  that 
appeared  of  no  importance  to 
her.  But  such  as  her  code  was, 
she  never  swerved  from  it,  which 
is  more  than  can  be  said  of  every 
one. 

Miss  Escote  grew  to  love  her 
dearly,  and  to  feel  that  her 
promise  to  her  cousin  to  guard 
the  girl  he  had  married  was 
likely  to  prove  the  beginning  of 
a  great  interest  and  happiness  in 
her  lonely  life ;  and  when  the 
two  women  talked  their  woman's 
talk  of  the  expected  baby,  for 
whose  coming  their  deft  fingers 
had  sewn  the  dainty  robes,  and 
shirts,  and  shawl,  and  what  not, 
and  dressed  the  airy  cradle — not 
unassisted  and  sniffed  at  by  the 
virtuous  Hannah,  whose  jealousy 
of  the  dark-eyed  stranger  had 
given  way  before  her  considera- 
tion   and    gentleness    toward   her 


43     sums    oi     in   INOB    1   \mi  i 

dear  cousin  Anne's  trusted  maid 

many  were  their  plans  for  the 
future,  and  their  joint  care  and 
guardianship  of  the  longed-for 
darling. 

Alas  !  all  human  plans  and  pro- 
jects  come  to  nought. 

One  glorious  summer  day, 
when  the  world  was  full  of 
beauty  and  fragrance,  and  the 
bees  were  humming  over  the 
roses,  and  time  seemed  to  stand 
still,  and  death  to  be  impossible, 
Nell  Lambert's  dark  eyes  closed 
on  all  that  brightness — on  the 
little  dark-haired  baby-daughter 
so  lovingly  looked  for — on  Anne's 
kind  face  and  the  steadfast  truth 
of  it  as  she  promised  to  be  father 
and  mother  both  to  the  orphan — 
on  the  life  that  seemed  to  be  just 
opening  out  to  her  its  real  scope 
and  significance. 

When  the  sweet  summer  even- 
ing fell,  and  the  baby's  feeble  wail 
seemed  to  awaken  echoes  in  the 
old  house  that  had  slept  since  the 
last  of  Anne's  weakly  little  sisters 
had   found  it    not  worth  while  to 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.   43 

stay  longer  in  so  unsatisfactory 
a  world,  the  beautiful  young 
mother  lay,  like  a  glorious 
marble  effigy,  at  rest  forever ; 
roses  on  her  cold  breast,  roses 
scattered  everywhere  around  her 
— the  sweet  old  garden  roses  the 
town-bred  girl  had  loved  and 
reveled  in — once  saying,  half 
playfully,  half  seriously,  she 
would  like  to  be  "  smothered  in 
them "  when  she  should  lie  in 
her  coffin. 


III. 

A    CONFIDENCE. 

"  For  in  companions 
That  do  converse  and  -.caste'  the  time  together, 
Whose  souls  do  bear  an  equal  yoke  of  love, 
There  must  be  need'  a  Hie  proportion 
Of  lineaments,  of  manners,  and  of  spirit." 
— Merchant  ok  Venice. 


N  C  E  more  it  was 
summer  in  the  old 
garden  at  High  Trees. 
Roses,  ag  many  and  as 
sweet  as  had  decked 
the  last  resting-place 
of  dark-eyed  Nell  Lambert,  were 
sunning  their  beauty,  and  making 
the  warm  air  flagrant  with  the 
lavish  generosity  of  the  most 
beautifid  and  sweet  of  flowers  in 
her  prime.  The  sun  lay  hot 
upon  the  unsheltered  parts  of  the 

44 


STORY    OF    ELEANOR    LAMBERT.      45 

garden,  shining  on  that  July 
afternoon  from  one  of  those 
cloudless  summer  skies  which 
are  wont,  as  evening  falls,  to 
put  on  a  magic  and  lucent  depth 
of  clearness  that  lends  a  mystic 
charm  to  the  first  twinkle  of  the 
stars  as  "  heaven's  pale  candles  " 
peep  out  one  by  one.  When,  in 
the  midst  of  that  tender  bright- 
ness the  sun's  sinking  leaves 
behind  on  such  a  day,  the  evening 
star  hangs  like  a  lamp,  the  dullest 
spirit  catches  a  hint  of  eternity, 
and  knows  itself  immortal. 

On  this  particular  afternoon,  in 
the  shade  of  the  fir-trees,  whose 
fragrance  held  its  own,  and  was 
an  added  delight  even  among 
the  roses,  sat  two  girls,  too  deep 
in  talk  to  heed  the  gallant  pea- 
cock, who,  accustomed  to  be  fed 
by  them,  trailed  his  glorious 
train  before  their  eyes,  and  shot 
forth  his  prismatic  neck  and 
crested  head  in  vain,  clucking 
the  while  expectantly.  Presently, 
as  if  in  despite,  he  departed,  and 
going    to    a     bed     of    carnations 


■\(t     STORY    01     I  l.l   \\(.k    LAMB]  i:  I. 


nearer  the  house,  began  deliber- 
ately and  skillfully  to  nip  off  the 
unopened  buds.  At  this,  one  of 
the  girls  arose— she  had  been 
sitting;  on  a  low  garden-chair, 
while  her  companion  reposed  on 
the  grass,  her  head  against  her 
friend's  knee. 

"  Oh  !  Cousin  Nancy's  beloved 
carnations  !  "  cried  the  girl  who 
had  risen,  and  with  a  swift  rush 
she  pursued  the  regal  bird,  who 
bustled  off  more  hurriedly  than 
befitted  his  race,  and  took  him- 
self out  of  sight. 

The  girl  came  back  to  her  com- 
panion,    and      reseating     herself, 
plunged    again     into    her    talk- 
girlish   talk,   mingled  of  question 
and  answer,  light  laughter,  merry 
exclamations,   and     the   thousand 
follies  of  youth  and   inexperience. 
Twenty-one  years  had  gone  by 
since  Nell  Lambert  had  been  laid 
among  the  dead    Escotes  in  the 
old     churchyard  —  so     near    the 
home  that  had  sheltered  her  last 
days,  that  she  had  been  borne  to 
it     up    the    climbing    path     that 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.   47 


mounted  to  the  church  from  the 
village  by  her  cousin's  servants, 
as  they  had  borne  their  master, 
and  as  Anne  intended  they  should 
bear  her. 

Twenty-one  years  ago  Nell's 
dark  eyes  had  closed  upon  the 
face  of  the  little  daughter  who 
to-day  stood— her  living  image— 
among  the  roses. 

At       twenty-one      years      old 
Eleanor    Anne    Lambert    was   a 
well-nigh     perfect     specimen     of 
girlhood.      Tall,      straight,      and 
strong    in    her   rounded     slender- 
ness,  with  all  the  dark  and  glow- 
ing beauty  of  her  mother,  twenty- 
one  years  of   plenty   and   peace, 
and   refinement   of  surroundings, 
had  but  added  a  finer  charm  to 
the    beautiful     womanhood     she 
had    inherited    from    the    brave- 
natured  shop-girl  with  her  many 
potential  qualities. 

Twenty-one  years  of  associa- 
tion with  Anne  Escote's  rare 
nature,  of  education  of  mind  and 
heart  and  soul,  under  the  care 
and    through   the    experience    of 


I  •         fOR\     01     Ml    INOF     I    win  i    i 


that   noble  spirit,  had   made  the 
girl  strong  against  the  assaults  of 

the     weaker    strain     she    derived 
from  her  father. 

Miss    Escote's    neighbors   had 

shaken     their      heads      over     her 
theories    of   the   orphan's    educa- 
tion—her discarding  of  rules  and 
methods,  and    her    strong   belief, 
inherited     from    her    father— that 
education  meant  the  bringing  out 
of   the   powers   and    the   develop- 
ment  of    the   whole    mind    rather 
than    the    learning    of    a    multi- 
plicity     of      things.       The     wise- 
matrons  had    smiled  the  tolerant 
smile  of  matronhood  over  the  in- 
comprehensible   theories    of    the 
childless  spinster,  while   ladies  in 
the  same   unmarried  condition  as 
herself    had    uttered    the    oft-re- 
peated   formula,   "  If    /   had    had 
the  bringing  up  of  that  child  !  "— 
a    formula    so    common    that    its 
repetition  tempts  one  to  suppose 
that  the  only  really  well  brought- 
up  children  are  those  that  never 
existed. 

Hut    in  whatever   way   the    re- 


STORY  OK  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.   49 

suit  may  have  been  brought 
about — whether  by  the  success 
of  Anne  Escote's  theories  or  in 
spite  of  them — there  were  few 
found  to  deny  that  the  result 
was  very  beautiful  and  charming; 
or  that,  if  Eleanor  Lambert  were 
less  frivolous — fonder  of  "  read- 
ing and  all  that,"  as  the  young 
people  round  Allersley  said — than 
many  girls,  at  least  she  was  not 
made  at  all  "stuck  up,"  or  con- 
ceited thereby,  but  was  gentle 
in  word  and  deed,  whatever 
latent  fires  burned  in  her  dark 
eyes. 

She  was  not  accomplished  in 
the  usual  sense  of  the  word. 
Like  her  father,  she  had  a  fine 
natural  taste,  cultivated  by  edu- 
cation and  the  run  of  old  Mr. 
Escote's  fine  library.  Moreover, 
she  had  her  mother's  unreason- 
ins  and  instinctive  love  for  all 
beautiful  things,  added  to  the 
rarer  love  for  Nature  in  all  her 
moods.  Anne,  whose  long  walks 
with  her  father  were  among 
the  most  cherished    memories  of 


5°      *TOR\    01     I  i  i   \.\.,i;    LAMB1  I    I. 


their    days    of     companionship, 
hailed  this  instinct    in    her  small 
ward    with      delight,     and     many 
were  the  happy  hours  the  elderly 
woman  and  the  bright-eyed  child 
spent    in    the    lanes    and    fields- 
hours   of  healthful    exercise   and 
enjoyment    wherein     they    stored 
up    interests  for  years.      But    as 
to  real  accomplishments  she   had 
but    few.     She     had     learned    to 
draw,  and  had    a   certain  natural 
facility,  but  felt  no  power  of  real 
attainment.     She  had  learned   to 
play,    and    could    pass    many    a 
happy    half-hour   softly   fingering 
the    keys    for     her    own  amuse- 
ment ;  but  she  had    no  power  of 
brilliant  execution,   and  her  great 
love  and    need   for   music    found 
satisfaction     in      Miss     Escotc's, 
which    was     very    far    above    the- 
average. 

"  Cousin  Nancy"— so  Anne 
has  taught  the  child  to  call  her 
— and  echoes  from  the  past  when 
Dick  Lambert  had  been  the  only 
one  to  use  it,  gave  an  added 
sweetness    to    the    name    on    the 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.   5 1 

baby  lips — "Cousin  Nancy,  pay 
me  a  pitty  tune  !  "  had  been  little 
Eleanor's  cry  often  and  often  in 
her  childhood,  and  Cousin  Nancy 
never  refused. 

Between  the  woman  and  the 
child  there  was  a  perfect  love 
and  trust,  that  did  but  deepen 
as  the  years  went  by,  and  Anne 
drew  nearer  to  old  age  as  the 
child  blossomed  into  beautiful 
girlhood  and  more  beautiful 
womanhood.  Eleanor  threw  into 
her  love  for  the  woman  who  had 
been  father,  and  mother,  and 
friend  in  one,  who  had  tended, 
and  taught,  and  loved  her  from 
the  day  of  her  birth,  all  the 
ardor  poor  Nell  had  felt  for 
her  husband's  cousin  ;  while 
Anne's  for  her  had  the  force  of 
all  that  which  her  lavish  heart 
could  have  bestowed  on  husband 
and  children  of  her  own,  if  Dick 
— had  not  been  Dick  !  And  this 
was  Dick's  child.  To  such  a 
nature  as  Anne  Escote's  that 
fact  was  the  very  essence  of  her 
love  for  the  orphan — would  have 


-j     5T0R\    "i     II  I   VNOR    l   ^MBl  I    i 


n    even    though    the    child's 
mother  had  not  been  as  dear  to 
her   as  Nell  became.      For  under 
Anne's     grave     reasonableness — 
hei   power   of   seeing   the   many- 
sidedness  of  life— her  quiet    ways 
— there  lay  an   immense   capacity 
for  sentiment,  a  constant  tender- 
ness of  heart   that   perhaps   none 
but  her   father   ami    Eleanor   ever 
fully     appreciated.     As     to     the 
girl,     there     was     an     answering 
note     in    herself    which    vibrated 
in  response  to  the  elder  woman's 
touch    at    all    times;    for   at   the 
bottom  of  her  heart,   too,  under 
all  the    joy  and    strength   of    her 
youth,  there  lay  the  same  yearn- 
ing for  the   deeper  things   of  life 
— the    mysterious,  the    incompre- 
hensible; the  same  indefinite  long- 
ing for  some  good  too  great  and 
vague   for  words,  that   had    made 
and    kept    Anne    Escote's    heart 
both  young  and  sad. 

On  the  July  afternoon  when 
the  girls  talked  under  the  fir- 
trees,  Miss  Escote  sat,  as  she 
had  sat  on  that  wintry    morning 


STOKY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.   53 

which  had  given  to  her  later  life 
its  greatest  interest,  in  her  cheer- 
ful room  up-stairs.  A  book  was 
by  her  side,  her  knitting  in  her 
hand,  and  on  her  peaceful  face 
the  beauty  of  a  noble  old  age, 
the  history  of  a  well-spent  life 
writ  plain  to  see.  From  time  to 
time,  as  the  echoes  of  a  girlish 
laugh  floated  in  through  the 
open  window  on  the  warm- 
scented  air  of  the  garden,  a 
quiet  smile  touched  her  features 
like  a  ray  of  winter  sunshine, 
and  once  she  rose  and  looked 
out  as  if  with  a  desire  to  rest 
her  eyes  on  her  darling's  visible 
presence. 

It  was  at  the  moment  when 
Eleanor  made  her  swift  rush  at 
the  peacock,  and  Miss  Escote's 
smile  grew  brighter  at  the  sight, 
and  she  watched  the  girl  until 
she  had  returned  to  her  seat,  and 
once  more  taken  her  friend's 
head  against  her  knee. 

"God  bless  her!"  murmured 
the  old  woman,  softly,  and  then 
with    a     sigh :     "  God    bless    her, 


j  j      STOR\     OB     ELBA  NOK    I. AMI  I  I    I 


and  let  me  live  to  see  her  a  few 
years  older !  " 

Eleanor  Lambert  had  returned 

the  day  before  from  a  month's 
visit  to  London,  and  it  was  to 
hear  her  news,  and  in  return 
give  an  account  of  her  own 
doings  during  a  visit  of  the  same 
duration  to  relations  in  Scotland, 
that  Felicia  Gray,  the  constant 
friend  of  her  childhood  and  girl- 
hood, had  come  to  spend  a  long 
afternoon  of  mutual  confidences. 

Dr.  Gray,  Felicia's  father,  may 
be  said  to  have  been,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  Anne  Escote,  Eleanor 
Lambert's  earliest  friend,  since 
he  was  present  at  her  birth, 
and  had  piloted  her  through  the 
dancers  of  her  childish  sicknesses. 
His  task  had  not  been  a  hard 
one,  for  Eleanor's  health  was  as 
perfect  as  her  constitution,  and 
the  doctor  was  accustomed  to 
point  to  her  as  an  example  of 
what  every  healthily  brought-up 
child  should  be. 

Dr.  Gray,  like  many  another 
of    his    profession,    had    qualities 


STORY   OF1   ELEANOR    LAMBERT.     55 


which  enabled  the  elderly  woman, 
thus  suddenly  called  upon  to  act 
the  part  of  both  parents  to  the 
little  orphan,  to  trust  in  him  as 
her  most  valued  friend  and  coun- 
sellor; and  on  his  side  not  only 
did  he  give  an  unfailing  care  and 
affection  to  both  guardian  and 
ward,  but  in  all  Miss  Escote's 
theories  of  education  and  de- 
velopment he  was  her  stanchest 
ally  and  backer. 

As  to    Eleanor,   Dr.   Gray  was 
so  much  part  of  her  life  that  she 
loved   him     with    the    instinctive 
love  that  is  generally  associated 
with  ties  of  blood,  and  she  could 
not  remember  the  time  when  he 
had   not   seemed  to  her  the   best 
and    noblest    man    in    the    world, 
while  Felicia  had  been  her  chosen 
friend   from    the  time  when  Mrs. 
Gray,   a    despondent,    grumbling 
woman,    and    one    of    the    most 
severe     critics    of    Miss    Escote's 
"  foolish,    old-maidish     theories," 
used     to     lament    over    the    way 
"that    dreadful    child"    led    her 
own  pretty,  sedate  little  daughter 


56      S'l'OlN      01      I   II    \N.)R     I, AMI;!   |    I. 


into    wild     escapades,     until    the 

pn cnt     time,    when     even     Mrs. 

Gray    felt    the    influence    of    her 

beauty    and    ardent    gentleness, 

and     Felicia     had     grown    into    a 

slim    maiden,    whose    sweet    pink 

cheeks    and     demure    blue    eyes 

were    the    outward     graces    of   a 

steadfast   heart,  loving    and    true 

if    less   ardent   than  her   friend's; 

while     the     silky     chestnut     hair 

covered   a  head  that   held  a  very 

clear  and    bright   little  brain  ;— to 

some    purpose,     for     Felicia    was 

the    eldest    of  poor  peevish   Mrs. 

Gray's    large    family  of  four  sons 

and     four      daughters,    and     the 

burden    of    the    woman's   part  of 

the    domestic    life    at   VVestfields 

fell  upon  her  soft  shoulders. 

No  wonder  this  maiden  of  one- 
and-twenty  had  at  times  a  grave 
air  and  a  look  of  anxious  respon- 
sibility unsuited  to  her  years  and 
her  soft  young  prettin< 

From  her  earliest  girlhood  it 
had  been  she  who  saved  "  poor 
mamma"  from  the  fatigue  that 
lad)-    deprecated     as    feeling    so 


STORY    OF    ELEANOR    LAMBERT.      57 

unfit  for,  as  well  as  from  every 
other  annoyance  the  child  could 
prevent. 

"Come  out  into  the  spinney, 
and  I  will  swing  you  ;  poor 
mamma  has  got  a  headache," 
she  would  say  to  the  scrambling 
brood  of  children,  coming  one 
after  the  other  so  close  that  they 
trod  upon  each  other's  heels,  while 
she  herself,  but  for  her  accepted 
motherhood,  was  but  a  child. 
And  the  flock  would  tear  out  to 
the  swing,  hung  between  two 
tall  trees  in  the  spinney,  and 
after  the  elders  had  tumbled  in 
and  out  often  enough,  Felicia's 
young  arms  would  work  for  the 
entertainment  of  Susie,  and  Bob, 
and  Baby,  to  cries  of  "  Oh, 
Felicia!  it's  my  turn  now!' 
"  Oh,  Felicia  !  Susie's  been  in 
all  the  time!'  until  they 
ached. 

As  years  went  on,  Mrs.  Gray 
left  more  and  more  on  the  willing 
hands  of  her  eldest  daughter.  It 
was  she  to  whom  the  hard-work- 
ing  father   turned    for  sympathy 


5<S      STORY    Ol      I  II   ANOR    LAMB1  I    I. 


and  interest  ;  by  a  tacit  consent 
his  wife's  shortcomings  in  that 
respect  were  never  alluded  to 
between  him  and  Felicia. 

"  Poor  mamma's   head  aches," 
poor      mamma's     ill-health     and 
general  disabilities  in  the  matter 
of  troublesome  duties,  were  held 
sufficient   excuse   for  everything, 
and    Felicia    cheerfully   discussed 
with    her    father    not    only    ways 
and      means,    and    if    he    might 
honestly    allow    himself    another 
horse,  and  so  forth,  but  how  best 
to    dispose    of    wild    but    warm- 
hearted   Tom,    and      to     put    a 
stronger      spirit      into      nervous 
Hugh,  not  to  speak  of  the  little 
girls'  schooling  and  the  wear  and 
tear    of    frocks    and    shoes    and 
jackets  and  trousers. 

Much  happiness  came  to  the 
overworked  little  daughter 
through  her  comradeship  with 
the  strong  and  tender-hearted 
father;  but  at  times  life  was  a 
little  hard  for  her,  and  her  well- 
earned  visit  to  Scotland,  on  which 
her  father  had  insisted  in  the  face 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.   59 

of  profuse  lamentations  and  won- 
derings  as  to  what  she  should  do 
without  her  on  Mrs.  Gray's  part, 
had  been  almost  the  first  real 
holiday  she  had  had  since  her 
childhood.  Her  friendship  with 
Eleanor,  and  the  welcome  al- 
ways ready  for  her  coming  at 
High  Trees  had  been  the  chief 
joys  of  her  life,  and  in  despite 
of  all  the  well-worn  jibes  at  the 
frailty  of  women's  friendships, 
their  small  jealousies,  and  petty 
quarrels,  the  two  girls  had  not 
only  a  strong  and  constant 
mutual  love,  but  an  equally 
sincere  mutual  admiration. 
Eleanor's  dark  beauty,  her  grace, 
her  depths  of  feeling,  the  way  she 
wore  her  clothes,  even,  were  as 
much  a  source  of  admiration  to 
the  doctor's  pretty  daughter  as 
were  her  own  blue  eyes  and  wild- 
rose  tints,  her  clear  sense,  and 
her  thousand  virtues  as  daughter 
and  sister  to  Eleanor. 

They  were  not  alike  in  much, 
save  the  sweet  fragrance  of  youth 
and  goodness. 


6o     STOR\     M|     I,,    \N()k    |.XM|;I  ,.  , 


The  clear  light  of  Felicia's  life 
burned  steady  and  serene,  like  a 
lamp  brightening  and  illumina- 
ting the  household  circle  the 
round  of  duty— smoothing  away 
obstacles  and  making  dark  things 
plain. 

Eleanor's  spirit  took  a  wider 
range.  Her  light  fell  softly,  like 
the  moon's,  overall  the  landscape, 
even  to  the  dim  distances  where 
only  shadows  are.  Her  fancy 
lived  in  space,  and  was  at  home 
among  the  stars,  and  when  it 
visited  the  lower  earth  brought 
back  immortal  longings  with  it. 

Who     shall    say     which     light 
brought  most  of  blessing? 

If  the  moonlight  is  good  to 
love,  to  dream,  to  break  one's 
heart  under,  the  men  rest  from 
their  labors,  the  women  sew, 
the  children  dance  by  the  light 
of  the  household  lamp,  and  when 
it  goes  out  the  room  is  too  dark 
for  work  or  play,  though  the 
moon  be  shining  at  its  full. 

However   il    may    be,   the    two 
girls   loved    one    another    with    a 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.   6l 

love  that  was  destined  to  be  put 
to  proof — and  conquer. 

"  Nell,  dear,"  Felicia  was  say- 
ing, "  was  Mrs.  Graham  as 
funny  as  ever?  " 

Mrs.  Graham,  an  old  friend  of 
Anne  Escote's,  had  been  Eleanor's 
hostess  during  her  visit  to  Lon- 
don. 

"Funny!  I  don't  know  that 
funny  is  exactly  the  word.  She's 
just  one  of  those  people  that  are 
amusing  to  talk  about  ;  but — well, 
it's  a  shame  to  say  so  when  she 
is  always  so  kind  to  me  and  so 
anxious  to  have  me — but — "  she 
paused. 

"  But  not  amusing  to  be  with  ?  " 
asked  Felicia. 

"No;  it  is  horrid  to  say  so; 
but  somehow,  though  I  should 
laugh  quite  good-naturedly  if 
some  one  were  describing  her  to 
me — supposing  I  did  not  know 
her — when  I  am  with  her  I 
can't  help  feeling  irritated  with 
all  her  countless  ailments  and 
her  elaborate  descriptions  of  them 
and    their     remedies.     She     was 


(>-     STORY    01    in   \\ou    LAMBERT. 


going  in  for  steel  this  time,  and 
took  such  doses  of  it  that  really 
at  last  I  began  to  expect  to  sec 
her  come  out  in  a  rash  of 
needles !  " 

Felicia    laughed,    then     sighed. 
Fancied  ailments  had  been   such 

common  events  in  her  experience 
of  her  mother  that  she  passed 
them  by  as  inevitable.  Eleanor's 
quick  sympathy  caught  the  mean- 
ing of  the  little  sigh. 

"  It's  horrible  of  people  in  '  rude 
health  '  like  me,"  she  said,  gently, 
"  to  laugh  at  those  who  arc  not 
so  strong.     Of  course,  they  natur- 
ally   grow  a    little    fanciful.      Do 
you  remember  Mrs.  Roper  saying 
to  Cousin  Nancy  what  a  pleasure 
it  must  be   to  have  me   with   her 
to    cheer    her    with    my    'animal 
spirits?'     As  if  I   spent    the   day 
in   jumping   over    the   chairs   and 
tables— when    I    was    quite    eigh- 
teen, too  !  " 

'  Yes,  I  think  your  health  was 
rather  too  '  rude,'  as  you  call  it, 
to  please -her.  She  thought  it  a 
little  unladylike  to  be  so  well." 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.  6$ 

"  Mrs.  Graham  has  given  up 
art  this  year,"  Eleanor  went  on, 
with  a  smile.  "  I  am  a  little 
sorry,  because  she  hurried  me 
through  the  picture  galleries 
dreadfully.  She  says  science  is 
the  only  subject  worthy  the  atten- 
tion of  an  intelligent  being,  and 
we  went  to  a  great  many  lectures 
by  people — both  men  and  women 
— all  in  spectacles,  and  looking  as 
if  they  had  mislaid  their  combs 
and  clothes-brushes." 

"  Why,  I  thought  you  and 
Miss  Escote  went  in  for  science 
yourselves  !  "  exclaimed  Felicia, 
speaking  of  that  vast  subject  as 
if  it  had  been  lawn-tennis. 

Eleanor  laughed. 

"  My  mighty  mind  likes  it  in 
small  doses,  I  suppose,"  she 
said  ;  "  Cousin  Nancy's  science- 
powders  in  jam.  Besides,  the 
lectures  really  were  interesting 
enough,  only  I  wanted  to  be  at 
theaters  or  concerts  instead,  and 
unfortunately  those  are  below  the 
notice  of  an  intelligent  being — 
anyhow    of     Mrs.    Graham — just 


(,  j  01      II   I  I    \MU.KT. 

at    present.      Never    mind,    they 

will  have  .mother  turn  some  clay 
— next  year,  perhaps,  when  I  am 
with  her.     But  she  is  SO  good  and 

kind  to  me!"  cried  the  girl  ; 
"  it's  a  shame  to  laugh  at  her 
ever  so  little.  I  am  sure  she 
would  do  anything  in  the  world 
to  serve  Cousin  Nancy  or  me. 
She  always  talks  as  if  we  had 
been  girls  together  !  " 

Both  girls  laughed,  and  then 
there  was  a  little  pause. 

"  Nell,"  said  Felicia  presently, 
"  did  you  meet  any  one  in  town  ? 
I  am  sure  lots  of  people  must  have 
admired  you " 

"  Hundreds — thousands,  if  it 
pleases  you,"   laughed  Nell. 

"  No  ;  but,  Nell — didn't  anyone 
fall  in  love  with  you  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of,"  an- 
swered her  friend  ;  "  not  enough 
to  tell  me  so,  anyhow.  You  know 
Mrs.  Graham  has  not  a  very 
large  circle  of  friends,  and  now 
that  she  has  taken  up  science 
the  livelier  ones  have  dropped  off 
a    good    deal.       One    old    gentle- 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.   65 


man— with  spectacles,  of  course 
— who  prides  himself  on  always 
using  words  of  one  syllable  ex- 
cept under  great  pressure,  used 
to  come  pretty  often.  Mrs. 
Graham  thinks  him  very  in- 
teresting; she  says  he  is  so 
Anglo-Saxon.  I  snppose  I  can't 
be,  for  it  came  to  be  a  thrilling 
excitement  to  me  to  try  to  in- 
veigle him  into  sentences  where 
monosyllables  were  out  of  the 
question." 

"Didn't  he  get  to  hate  you  ?  " 
asked  Felicia. 

Eleanor's  dark  eyes  lighted  up 
with  mirth. 

"  Well,    no,    I    don't    think   he 
did.     At  least — you   don't  know 
his    name     even,    so    there's    no 
.  harm  in  telling  you— one  day  he 
wrote  me  a  beautiful  little  letter, 
asking  me  to  be  Mrs.  So-and-so, 
and,  except     our     two     names,  I 
really    believe      there     wasn't    a 
single    word    of     more    than    one 
syllable  in  it." 

"  Have   you    kept  it  ?     Oh,  do 
show  it  to  me  !  " 


66     STORY    "l     ELEA  NOR    l.AMIil  K  I'. 

Eleanor  shook  her  head. 

"  Some  day,  perhaps,"  she  said. 
"  Somehow  I  could  not  take  it 
seriously — it  seemed  too  much 
like  a  composition  written  by  a 
child  for  a  prize.  I  am  afraid 
my  answer  must  have  read  very 
tamely  after  it.  I  only  hope  his 
pride  in  his  own  performance 
more  than  compensated  for  any 
small  mortification  my  refusal 
cost  him.  I  half  thought  at  first 
of  trying  to  emulate  his  letter 
and  write  mine  too  in  mono- 
syllables ;  I  thought  he  might 
perhaps  take  it  as  a  compliment  ; 
but  I  abandoned  the  idea,  for  on 
mature  deliberation  I  feared,  on 
the  other  hand,  he  might  take  it 
as  an  impertinence." 

"  He  couldn't  have  done  that  if 
he  knew  anything  about  you," 
protested  Felicia,  stoutly.  "  I 
wonder  he  had  the  impertinence 
to  dare  to  propose  to  you  !  ' 

"  Oh,  no  !  it  wasn't  imperti- 
nence ;  and  he  really  was  a  nice, 
kindly  old  gentleman.  I  dare  say 
he    thought    I    should    prove    an 


STORY  OF  KLKANOR  LAMBERT.  6j 

apt  pupil,  and  we  might  institute 
a  school  of  pure  Anglo-Saxon 
monosyllabists.  I  wonder  he 
didn't  ask  Mrs.  Graham  instead. 
Perhaps  he  thought  her  too 
old  to  begin  learning  her  own 
language  afresh,  especially  as  she 
has  a  natural  love  for  words  of 
the  longest  and  most  elaborate 
kind." 

There  was  another  pause,  and 
the  magnetism  that  affects  all 
sensitive  natures  made  Eleanor 
aware  that  Felicia  had  some- 
thing special  to  say  that  would 
not  come  readily  to  her  lips. 

"  I  have  been  doing  all  the 
talking,"  she  exclaimed  at  last  ; 
"  tell  me  some  more  about  your- 
self, dear.  Your  letters  while 
you  were  in  Scotland  were  so 
short — except  that  you  were  en- 
joying yourself  (how  I  used  to 
envy  you  sometimes  among  the 
mountains !)  they  told  me  very 
little." 

"  Nell !  "  said  Felicia,  softly. 

"Yes?  Go  on,  dear;  I  do  so 
want  to  hear  all  about  it." 


01     111    VNOR    LAMBE1    I 


"  There  was  sonic  one  there — 
.it  my  uncle's — a  sort  of  cousin 
of  my  aunt's — I  don't  know  how- 
to  tell  you;  it  may  be  nothing 
— sometimes  I  don't  dare  to 
think " 

Eleanor  put  her  arm  round 
her  friend's  neck,  as  Felicia  laid 
her  burning  cheek  in  her  lap  and 
hid  her  eyes. 

"Did  the — some  one — fall  in 
love  with  you,  dear?  "  she  asked, 
tenderly. 

Felicia  took  her  hand  and 
softly  pressed  it  against  her  hot 
check. 

"  I  think  so — I — I — hope  so," 
she  whispered,  tremulously. 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,"  said 
Eleanor. 

"He  was  staying  there,"  began 
Felicia  ;  "  I  did  not  like  to  write 
it  to  you — there  was  so  little  to 
say  ;  but  we — liked  each  other 
directly,  and  he  said  my  singing 
was  like  a  bird's  ('so  it  is,'  put 
in  Eleanor),  and  he  went  for 
walks  and  drives  with  us,  and  he 
always  tried  to  be  with  me — and 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.   69 

oh,  Nell !  he  is  so  dear  and  nice — 
not  really  handsome,  I  suppose — 
but  better  than  handsome.  And 
the  last  day,  when  we  were  in 
the  garden,  he  asked  me  to 
gather  him  a  rose,  and  he  told 
me  he  knew  some  people  near 
here,  the  Blakes  of  Keston, 
and  they  had  asked  him  to  stay 
there  this  summer.  He  said  he 
had  not  made  up  his  mind  if  he 
should  accept  the  invitation, 
but  that  now  it  depended  entirely 
on  me — if  I  said  he  might  come 
he    would    write     that     day    and 

accept "     She  stopped,  out  of 

breath. 

"  And  you  said  he  mjght  ?  ,: 
asked  Eleanor,  caressing  the 
chestnut  head  with  her  hand. 

Felicia's  voice  failed  her  as  she 
whispered,  "Yes;"  and  then  in 
accents  of  intense  feeling,  which 
Eleanor  had  never  yet  heard 
from  her  lips,  she  went  on  pas- 
sionately, "  Oh,  Nell,  dear  !  it  must 
mean  he  loves  me,  mustn't  it? 
It  can't  have  been  all  a  mistake  ? 
I  know  it  isn't !     I  know  he  would 


70     STOR\     01     I  l  I    INOR    I   VMBE]    I  . 


have  asked  me  while  I  was  there, 
only  that  we  were  hardly  ever 
alone  together.      Nell,  dear!    say 

you  think  it  is  really  true  !  If  it  is 
not,  I  can't  bear  it — my  heart 
will  break  !" 

"Don't  cry,  my  dear  darling, 
don't  cry!"  said  Eleanor  in  her 
tenderest  tones.  "It  is  true;  I 
feel  sure — certain — it  is  true. 
lie  will  conic,  and  it  will  be  all 
right.  He  is  a  lucky  man  !  I 
hope  he  knows  it,"  she  went  on 
more  lightly,  to  help  the  girl  to 
recover  from  her  excitement. 
"Don't  be  unhappy  about  it, 
dear.  I  am  so  glad  you  have  told 
me." 

"  I  couldn't  write  it,"  said 
Felicia,  tremulously;  "there  was 
nothing  really  to  tell." 

"Of  course  not.  But  now,  is 
he  coming  soon?  Did  he  leave 
Scotland  before  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  a  fortnight  ;  I  think  he 
was  to  be  at  Keston  tin's  week." 

"  This  week  !  "  cried  Eleanor 
instantly,  full  of  excited  interest. 
Oh  !        I    wish     I     knew     when  ! 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.   7 1 

Felicia,  promise  to  let  me  know 
the  minute — the  very  minute — it 
is  settled  !  If  you  let  a  soul  — 
except  your  father — know  before 
me,  I  shall  never  forgive  you  !  " 

Felicia's  smile  had  come  back, 
a  little  tearful,  but  happy. 

"  I    should    think    so  ! — if 

she  said. 

"  I  declare  you  have  never  told 
me  his  name  yet !  "  cried  Eleanor. 
"  Is  it  very  ugly?  " 

Felicia  turned  her  head  away 
shyly. 

"  His  name  is  Will  Egerton," 
she  said,  softly,  lingering  lovingly 
over  the  syllables. 

There  was  an  instant's  pause 
before  Eleanor's  answer  came. 
As  her  friend  spoke  the  precious 
name,  she  had  given  an  almost 
imperceptible  start,  and  into  her 
face  there  had  come  that  sud- 
denly-arrested expression  which 
tells  of  a  not  wholly  pleasant 
surprise. 

Felicia's  eyes  were  on  the 
grass  at  which  her  slim  fingers 
were    nervously    plucking,    or   in 


-2  ..iiii    INOR    I   \Ml:l.UT. 

the    (lark     ones     above     her     she- 
might  have  seen   a   sudden   dfla- 

tion,  and  on  her   friend's   cheek   a 
slight  access  of  color. 

But  whatever  the  emotion  the 
announcement  of  Felicia's  lover's 
nam.'  aroused,  the  girl  had  mas- 
tered it  in  a  moment.  B<  fore 
the  other  had  had  time  to  wonder 
at  the  short  pause,  Eleanor  was 
speaking  in  her  usual  tone,  or 
one  so  nearly  like  it,  that  Felicia's 
ears,  filled  with  the  echoes  that 
sacred  name  had  awakened  in 
her  maidenly  heart,  detected  no 
difference. 

"Will  Egerton!"  she  said, 
gaily.  "Well,  Felicia,  darling, 
this  is  a  coincidence  !  Do  you 
know  I  must  have  ahead)'  met 
your  Mr.  Will  Egerton." 

"  Oh,  Nell,  dear!  where  how 
— where  did  you  meet  him  ?  " 

"In  the  train  yesterday,"  she 
answered.  "Of  course,  he  must 
have  been  on  his  way  to  the 
Blakes';  he  got  out  at  the 
Junction." 

"Tell       me     all     about       him, 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.   73 

Nell!"  implored  Felicia;  "tell 
me  what  you  thought  of  him. 
Isn't  he  good-looking  ?  But  how 
do  you  know  it  was  Will — Mr. 
Egerton  ?  Did  you  see  it  on  his 
luggage — or  what  ?  Oh,  fancy 
your  coming  across  him  like 
that  !  " 

Eleanor  laughed. 

"  Well,  I  must  confess  to 
having  tried  very  hard  to  get 
a  peep  at  the  initials  on  his 
portmanteau,"  she  said  ;  "  but  I 
didn't  discover  his  name  from 
them — he  told  me.  You  see  we 
had  been  having  a  little  conver- 
sation before  that.  There  'were 
two  old  ladies  in  the  carriage 
with  us  when  we  started  from 
London,  and  they  were  so  afraid 
of  draughts,  and  accidents,  and 
concealed  murderers,  and  all  sorts 
of  horrors,  that  they  talked  to 
us  both — I  mean  Mr.  Egerton 
and  me — all  the  first  part  of  the 
journey  about  them,  and  how 
glad  they  were  to  find  a  carriage 
with  respectable  young  people  in 
it "     She  paused  and  smiled. 


,"  (         fORV    01     1  II  .AN. iK    l.AMi:|  I-  i. 


on  ! 


"  Yes,    yes ;    go    on,    Nell,   go 


■'  Well,  naturally  we — we  two 
respectable  young  people — looked 
at  each  other  with  a  smile  at 
that.  And  then — well,  it  was 
natural,  too,  that  when  the  two 
poor  ohl  ladies,  who  felt  so  safe 
under  our  protection,  got  out  at 
Rugby— and  I  needn't  tell  you 
that  your — that  Mr.  Egcrton  got 
out,  too,  and  helped  them  with 
their  numberless  packages  with 
chivalrous  politeness — well,  nat- 
urally we  laughed  a  little  when 
he  got  in  again.  Of  course,  I 
couldn't  refuse  to  talk  to  him 
after  our  common  experience, 
and    he    was    very     pleasant    and 


amusing.' 


"Oh,  Nell,  dear!  how  delight 
ful  !  I  am  so  glad  you  have  seen 
him.  Don't  you  think  he  i<, 
handsome— or  anyhow  good- 
looking?  Of  course,  he  is  vcrj 
dark,  and  people  always  like  the  i 
opposites  ;  so  I  daresay  he  would 
not  strike  you  as  much  as  he  did 
me." 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.   75 

"  I  think  he  has — a  beautiful 
face,"  said  Eleanor,  very  seriously, 
and  bent  her  dark  head  and 
kissed  her  friend.  "  Felicia,  dear, 
I  congratulate  you." 

Felicia's  lip  quivered,  and  the 
tears  dimmed  her  blue  eyes. 

"  It  is  too  good  to   be  true !  " 

'she    whispered,    tremulously,    "I 

am    afraid.       I    am    ashamed    of 

having  told  you,  even  you,  Nell." 

"  Don't  be  ashamed,  dear. 
Telling  me  is  only  telling  your- 
self, you  know.  What  is  there 
to  be  ashamed  of  in — liking — a 
man  like  that  ?  " 

Felicia  rubbed  her  "cheek 
against  her  friend's  hand  as  she 
held  it  between  both  hers. 

"  He  didn't  tell  you  it  was  to 
the  B lakes'  he  was  going?"  she 
asked. 

"  He  said  he  was  on  his  way 
to  visit  friends  near  the  Junction," 
answered  Eleanor. 

She  did  not  mention  that  the 
young  man  had  appended  to  that 
harmless  remark  a  few  words — 
spoken  with  an  expression  in  his 


7''     STORY    ..i     in   \\,,i:    ,.  VMI;|  ,.  , 


dark  eyes  that  added  much  to 
their  weight— to  the  effect  that 
the  hope  of  seeing  his  fellow- 
traveler  again  would  considerably 
enhance  the  pleasure  of  his  visit 
'"  Keston.  And  looking  back 
into  those  dark  eyes  which  almost 
matched  her  own,  Eleanor  Lam- 
bert would  have  been  less  than 
woman  if  she  had  not  felt  a 
sympathetic  thrill  in  answer  to 
his  words. 

She  had   not  returned  his  play- 
ful,  "  Will    Egerton,  at  your  ser- 
vice,"  induced    by    his    discovery 
of   her   abortive    attempt    to    de- 
cipher  his   name   on   his   lurrcrao-c 
by    a    corresponding   revelation — 
which      he      may     perhaps    have- 
hoped    for,    though     too     true     a 
gentleman    to    try    to    surprise   it 
—but   she    had   let    him    cany  on 
the  conversation  instituted  by  t he- 
timid    ladies     (how    Will     blessed 
them      and      their      fears!)      and 
speeded  by    the   laugh  of  health- 
ful  young   spirits    which   had    fol- 
lowed  their   exit,   and    they    had 
talked    for    the    last    half-hour   of 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.   77 

their  journey  together  of  the 
country,  the  last  new  novel  or 
play,  or  what  not,  to  find  a  dozen 
points  of  agreement  or  of  dif- 
ference— what  did  it  matter 
which  ?  For  were  not  both 
young  and  fresh  and  ardent,  and 
what  better  converse  could  a 
young  man  want  than  with  this 
noble,  modest  maiden,  whose 
serious  soul  looked  out  from  the 
most  beautiful  eyes  in  the  world, 
and  whose  true  woman's  instinct 
told  her  she  need  fear  naught  but 
honor  and  respect  from  this 
chance  companion  with  the  glory 
of  his  youthful  manhood  upon 
him  ? 

So  when  Will  Egcrton,  hat  in 
hand  as  they  parted  at  the  Junc- 
tion, had  made  his  little  speech, 
Eleanor's  brave  eyes  had  looked 
back  into  his,  and  she  had  an- 
swered in  that  low-toned,  tender 
voice  of  hers,  that  seemed  attuned 
to  all  the  deeper  feelings  of  the 
soul,  "  Yes,  I  hope  we  may  meet 
again." 

And    through    the    hours  that 


7X     StORV    Ol    i  n   iNofe    LAMB] 


had      passed     since     her     home 
coming-even      while      receiving 
and  returning  with  caressing  love 
Cousin  Nancy's  beloved  welcome 
Hannah's      primly      affectionate 
greeting,  and  the  general  delight 
at  her  longed-for  return— a  sense 
of  something,    indefinite  and    in- 
describable, a  quickened   pulse  of 
the    heart,  a    sweet,    strange  pre- 
sentiment   of  she  knew  not  what 
had    been    with   her.     As  she  lay 
1,1   her  white  bed,   watching  with 
dreamy  eyes  the  full  moon  slop- 
ing "  her  westering  wheel  "  across 
her  window,    thoughts    new    and 
sweet  rose  and  fell  like  music  in 
her   m.nd,   and    it    was   not   until 
the  short  summer  night  was  past 
and  the   dawn   had  quenched    the 
stars  that  her  eyes  softly  closed. 

"  Will  Egcrton,  at  your  ser- 
vice," was  her  last  waking 
thought,  and  she  smiled  even  in 
her  sleep. 

And  Will  Egerton  was  the 
hero  of  Felicia's  maiden  love. 
story,  and  it  was  to  woo  and  win 
Felicia  he  had  made  that  journey  I 


STORY    OF    ELEANOR    LAMBERT.      79 

A  servant  approached  the  two 
girls. 

"  Mrs.  Lee  is  in  the  drawing- 
room,  Miss  Eleanor,"  she  said, 
"  and  the  mistress  says  will  you 
and  Miss  Gray  come  in  to  tea." 

"  Come  along,  Felicia  dear," 
said  Eleanor,  and  none  could 
have  guessed  from  her  tone  that 
an  airy  something,  which  for 
the  last  twenty-four  hours  had 
haunted  her  sleeping  and  waking 
thoughts,  had  within  the  last 
few  moments  crumbled  into  the 
"baseless  fabric  of  a  vision." 


IV. 


face's  spinning. 

Tkii  shall  return  no  more, 
Summer  shall  paint  the  floor 
Of  earth  with  flowers  o'er  ; 
This  shall  not  come  to  me." 

■—Caroline  Fitzgerald. 

jflFTEEN      days    had 
passed    since   the    sum- 
mer's   afternoon    when 
Felicia    had     told     her 
tremulous  tale  of  dawn- 
ing love  and  timid  hope 
in  the  garden  at  High  Trees,  and 
on  another  afternoon  that  might 
have  been  the  same  in   its  glory 
of  sun  and  sky,  Eleanor  sat  alone 
in    her   old   place    under    the    fir- 
trees.     Alone    for    the    moment, 
although     seats    placed    in    every 
shady     spot,     and     white-draped 
80 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.   8l 

tables  bearing  dainty  cakes  and 
cooling  drinks  at  intervals 
among  the  trees  told  of  ex- 
pected friends  and  the  gentle 
pleasures  of  a  country  garden- 
party. 

Eleanor,  in  her  gown  and 
large  hat  of  creamy  white,  a 
fragrant  bunch  of  roses  at  her 
belt,  was  a  winsome  sight,  and  if, 
as  she  sat  alone,  there  had  been 
for  a  moment  a  certain  wistful- 
ness  in  her  beautiful  eyes,  as  she 
rose  and  went  to  meet  Cousin 
Nancy  across  the  lawn — a  picture 
of  what  reverend  age  should  be, 
in  her  black  dress,  the  soft  folds 
of  her  white  kerchief  at  her 
throat,  and  the  worn  outline  of 
her  noble  face  softened  by  the 
filmy  lace  of  her  cap — there  was 
nothing  in  the  girl's  face  but 
loving  brightness. 

"  You  bad  woman  !  "  she  cried, 
"  how  often  have  I  commanded 
you  not  to  come  out  in  the 
blazing  sun  without  a  parasol?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear," 
answered     Miss     Escote,    with    a 


k«gh  and  a  look  of  loving  pride 
at  the  fair  young  figure  bcforc 
"<-'•  I  really  did  not  do  it  on 
purpose  his  dm.  ;  but  I  am  Z 
old  to  alter  my  habits  now,  and 
—   know    ,t  is  a  IittIe    , 

Jg^  consider     „ly      com. 

"Vour  complexion    is  prettier 
an,nanyayounggirr,PstilI;. 

said     Eleanor,    with    a    ^ 

*        ,  '       un    a    caressnm 

touch     on     tin-     -.1  i  *» 

chert      i ■  i     •         er     Oman's 

check,  winch,   in    fact|  stilJ    b 

he  soft   hue   that   matched   the 
""dying    youthfulness     of      her 

heart. 

"  It's    Felicia     that    will     u 

-y  the  pai,  ujc:^:: 

to-day,  said  Miss  Escote  ;  «  how 
^PPy  the  demure  little  puss  £ 
Ld7"gagement]     Ifc  does  one 

tt    chMST    SUCh    haPPinCSS«  and 

t>e  child   deserves  all    the  good 
things  in  the  world."  b 

';  Ves,"  said     Eleanor,   in     her 
serious  way,  «  sne  does  " 

befn0rfu^t'S   Shy    h°^es    ha* 
been i  fulfilled,  and  she  and   Will 

Egerton  were  engaged. 


STORY    OF    ELEANOR    LAMBERT.      83 

If  the  intrusive  vision  of  a 
creamy  oval  face,  the  deep,  dark 
luster  of  a  pair  of  love-compelling 
eyes,  the  low  tones  of  a  serious, 
tender  voice,  had  risen  unbidden 
at  moments  between  Will  Eger- 
ton  and  the  memory  of  the  gentle 
blue-eyed  maiden  with  whom  he 
had  walked  and  talked  in  Scot- 
land but  so  short  a  time  before, 
whose  shy  approval  had  been  so 
sweet,  and  whose  bird-like  sing- 
ing had  cast  a  spell  over  him,  he 
put  it  from  him  loyally.  For 
was  not  the  rose  Felicia  had 
plucked  for  him  in  that  northern 
garden  in  his  pocket-book  still  ? 
Had  he  not  made  the  journey 
down  to  Elmshire  for  the  sole 
purpose  of  seeing  her  and  asking 
her  a  certain  sweet  question,  and 
hearing  an  answer  whose  purport 
he  could  scarce  doubt  ?  Had  he 
not  rehearsed  the  scene  a  hun- 
dred times,  and  pictured  the  soft 
bloom  that  would  overspread  the 
sweet  young  face  and  the  shy  yet 
happy  glance  of  the  clear  blue 
eyes?     And    was   all    this   to    be 


,         i  i  ,|;\     01     ELI    VNI  »H     LAMB!  I    I 


forgotten     forsooth    because     of 
the    passing    vision     of    another 


w  oman  ? 


If,  even  in  his  deepest  heart — 

in    tlu.se    depths    we     all     try    to 
ignore — Will  had  hidden  a  dream 
of    disloyalty,    the    first    sight    of 
Felicia's     face     when     they    met 
destroyed     that     unacknowledged 
dream    forever.      They  met  in   the 
company     of    others,    and      with 
no    chance    of    private   talk  ;    but 
there  was  that   in   the    girl's  face- 
that    made     Will   say   to   himself 
that     he   would    be     the    greatest 
scoundrel    unhung    if   he   proved 
disloyal  to  the    implied   troth    his 
farewell    words    had     given     her. 
"  No,"    he     vowed     solemnly    to 
himself;      "not      one      pain      or 
disappointment,    however    slight, 
shall    touch    that    sweetest    heart 
through  me." 

And  the  vow  brought  back  with 
it  a  rush  of  the  old  feeling  in  its 
first  freshness,  and  he  went  to 
rest  full  of  so  tender  a  sense  of 
his  own  good  fortune  in  having 
won  the  love  of  the  sweetest  and 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.   85 


dearest  maiden  in  the  world,  that 
it  overran  his  heart  with  some- 
thing that  took  love's  guise. 

"  Eleanor  Lambert  !  "  he 
thought ;  "  and  she  is  her 
dearest  friend  !  " — for  Felicia  had, 
of  course,  found  opportunity  to 
discuss  with  him  the  astonishing 
"  coincidence  "  that  it  should  have 
been  her  dear  Nell  who  had  been 
his  fellow-traveler — "  Well,  it  says 
a  great  deal  for  the  taste  —  of 
both." 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Egerton 
rode  over  to  Westfields.  The 
scene  he  had  mentally  rehearsed 
so  many  times  took  place,  if  not 
entirely  after  any  one  of  the 
various  versions  he  had  pictured 
— since  actual  conversations  are 
apt  to  vary  considerably  from 
imaginary  ones,  where  the  im- 
aginer  takes  both  parts — still 
with  the  foreseen  result,  and  Will 
Eeerton  returned  to  receive  his 
hosts'  congratulations  on  his 
luck  in  winning  one  of  the 
prettiest  and  best  girls  of  the 
country-side ;      while      the      girl 


'     STORY    oi     i  |  ,  AN0R    LAMBERT. 

herself,  after    enjoying    a  perfect 
ovation      of     rejoicing,     mingled 
With     mild       laments     from     hei 
mother,     noisy     regrets     at     the 
prospective    loss    of    her    never- 
failing  kindness  from  the  younger 
branches  of  the  family,  and  a  few 
words  of   deep  and   tender   sym- 
pathy   from     her    father,     which 
filled  her  heart  anew  with  a  rush 
of  enthusiastic  love  for  him,  went 
her  way  to  High  Trees  to  tell  her 
tale  to  Nell  with  tears  and  smiles 
and  blushes. 

And  Nell  answered  and  smiled 
and  petted  her  in  return  with- 
out one  backward  thought— with 
nothing  in  her  heart  but  love 
and  rejoicing  for  the  friend  of  all 
her  life. 

She,  too,  had  buried  one  little 
memory  so  deep  in  her  heart 
that  she  prayed  God  it  might 
never— never—  look  her  in  the 
face  again. 

There  came  a  day  when  the 
thought  that  it  had  been  so— 
that  there  had  not  been  one 
touch    of   aught    but    loyal    sym- 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.   87 


pathy  in  her  heart  that  day— was 
well  nigh  the  sole  small  thread 
of  comfort  she  could  cling  to. 

But     up     to      this     afternoon 
Eleanor   and    her   friend's  fianci 
had    not   met.     Westfields  was  a 
good    mile     from     High     Trees. 
Will's    visits     thare    had    to    be 
timed    to     suit    the    convenience 
of  his  friends,  the  Blakes  ;  maybe 
the     young     man     himself     had 
lost     his     desire     for    a    second 
meeting  with   his  fellow-traveler. 
Anyhow,  in  response  to  Felicia's 
representations  of  her  great  wish 
to  take  him  to  her  friend's  home, 
he    always    found    some   excuse. 
He   was    so     comfortable    in    the 
Westfields    garden  ;    it     was     so 
hot  ;  he  must  soon  be  off  again, 
and    so   on ;    and    so    it    came    to 
pass  that  the    first   formal   intro- 
duction of   Mr.   William  Egerton 
to     Miss    Escote    and    her    ward 
took     place     at      Miss      Escote's 
garden-party. 

Eleanor  came  forward  to  the 
little  group  from  Westfields  with 
a    smile    on     her    beautiful    face, 


»M    "'     I  LEANOB    l.\  ,11:1 


and     after    greeting   the     others, 
held  out  her  hand  to  Will. 

"  We  are  old  acquaintances, 
Mr.  Egerton,"  she  said,  brightly. 
"  If  only  I  had  known  on  what 
errand  you  were  conic,  I  should 
have  made  even  stronger  efforts 
to  discover  your  name  !  " 

Yes  ;  she  felt  no  flutter  at  her 
heart    as    she    spoke  ;    she    could 
look     him    straight     in    the    eyes 
without      the       slightest       thrill. 
Thank     God  !     that    silly,     base- 
less vision  had   fled— fled'  utterly. 
I  fer  cheek  had  burned  with  shame 
more   than    once    that    it    should 
have    arisen    from    nothing    more 
than    the    chance    companionship 
of  a  few  hours. 

Will  made  some  light  and 
suitable  reply,  and  she  stood 
talking  with  him  and  Felicia 
for  a  few  minutes  until  otlx  r 
guests  claimed  her  attention. 
Will's  eyes  followed  her,  and  he 
seemed  unaware  that  Felicia  had 
spoken. 

"Isn't  she  just  lovely,  Will?" 
the  girl  repeated. 


STORY    OF    ELEANOR    LAMBERT.      89 


Her  lover's  wandering  eyes 
came  back  to  her  face. 

"  Perfect  !"  he  said,  succinctly. 

Felicia  laughed  a  laugh  of 
perfect    content. 

"You'll  make  me  jealous!" 
she  said. 

"  Never,  I  hope,"  answered 
Will,  more  solemnly  than  her 
tone  seemed  to  warrant. 

She  laid  a  gentle  hand  on  his 
arm. 

"  Come  and  see  the  dear  old 
kitchen  garden,"  she  said,  gayly  ; 
"  I'm  sure  you'll  say  that's  per- 
fect." 

Later  in  the  afternoon,  when 
some  of  the  guests  had  left,  and 
the  remainder  were  enjoying  the 
freshness  of  the  early  evening, 
strolling  by  twos  and  threes 
about  the  old  garden,  which 
had  begun  to  exhale  its  twilight 
perfume,  Will  being  in  discourse 
with  his  hostess,  the  two  girls 
had  leisure  for  a  little  talk. 

"  He  is  coming  to  Dawlish 
with  us,"  Felicia  was  saying, 
("he,"    of    course,    meant    Will). 


9  °  J^RY_OF^ELEANoK    LAMBERT. 

;<0,J-     Nell,    dear,     won't    it    be 
heavenly  ?  " 

It    had    for    many    years    been 
the  custom  of  the  Gray  family  to 

spend  the  month  of  September  at 
the  seas.de,  and  a  custom  almost 
as  invariable  that  Eleanor  should 
•stay  anyhow  the  first  fortnight  of 

the  time  with  them 

"Bf«t.  Felicia,"  said  she, 
dnnt  y°u  think  this  year  as 
you  will  have  Mr.  Egerton  with 
y°l»,  ("oh,  call  him  Will'" 
interpolated  Felicia,  but  Eleanor 
went  on),  "it  will  be  more  con- 
ven.ent  to—your  mother-not  to 
have  another  visitor  as  well? 
You  will  have  your  own  time  taken 

up,  you  know,  dear,  and " 

"Eleanor!"  cried    Felicia,  dis- 
may    on    her    face.      "What    are 
you  thinking  of?    Why.youJww 
we  should  all   be  horribly  disap- 
pointed if  you   didn't   come,  too- 
'twould    be  like    breaking  up   .-,11 
our  old    ways!     And   you    know, 
dear,  it  may   be  the  last  time   we 
shall  all    be  together  in  the  dear 
old  way." 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.   9 1 


That  appeal  was  not  to  be 
gainsaid.  Eleanor  slipped  her 
arm  round  her  friend's  waist. 

"  The  new  way  will  be  as 
happy — a  great  deal  happier 
even,  I  hope,"  she  said,  lovingly. 

And  so,  in  the  first  days  of 
September,  to  Dawlish  the  whole 
party  went,  Mrs.  Gray  irritable 
with  the  unusual  exertion  of  the 
journey ;  her  husband  helpful 
and  thoughtful  for  her  comfort 
and  his  children's  pleasure  as 
of  yore  ;  Felicia  not  too  much 
absorbed  in  her  individual  hap- 
piness to  be,  as  always,  the 
capable  daughter,  sister,  and 
caterer  for  everybody's  well- 
being,  and  Eleanor  to  all  ap- 
pearance the  Eleanor  they  all, 
after  their  fashion,  knew  and 
loved. 

The  carriage-full  of  noisy, 
cheerful  youngsters  and  their 
elders  bore  but  faint  resemblance 
to  that  in  which  the  nervous  old 
ladies  had  served  as  the  indirect 
introduction  to  each  other  of  two 
"  respectable     young      people  ;  ' 


92    Story  6i   i  li  wok  lambi  r  i. 


and  it  would  perhaps  be  curious 
to  inquire  if  anything  in  the  long 
journey  to  Devonshire  brought 
back  to  either  of  the  two  any 
memory  of  the  earlier  one  and 
their  first  meeting. 


V. 


fate's  weaving. 

"  Alas,  hotv  easily  things  go  wrong  ! 
A  sigh  too  much,  or  a  kiss  too  long  ; 
And  there  follows    a  mist  and  a  weeping 

rain. 
And  life  is  never  the  same  again." 

— George  MacDonald. 

HE  sun  shone  that  Sep- 
tember as  if  he,  too, 
desired  to  make  Felicia's 
last  maiden  seaside  holi- 
day memorable  and  de- 
lightful. Day  after  day 
he  rose  in  a  sky  of  unclouded 
blue,  or  still  better,  a  sky  piled 
at  wide  intervals  with  those  far- 
off  masses  of  snowy  cloud  which 
make  the  azure  all  the  more 
heavenly  clear. 

Evening  after  evening  the  rich 
red  cliffs  glowed  to  his  brilliance, 
93 


94     SI  ORJ     OF     I  I  I  ANOR    LAMBERT, 


and  before  the  glow  was  gone  the 
moon  and  her  attendant  stars 
were  keeping  his  place  for  him, 
and  wooing  the  waves  into  tremu- 
lous paths  and  points  of  silver 
sheen. 

All   day  long  the  young  Grays 
bathed    and    boated,    and    fished 
and  raced  and  ran  as  only  healthy 
young  folks  can.     Every  morning 
began  afresh  their  mother's  plain- 
tive lament   over  the  noise  they 
made    and     their    not    easily-ap- 
peased appetites  ;  every  morning 
came     as     regularly     Dr.    Gray's 
good-humored    excuses    for    both 
and  the  general  tearing  of  him  in 
a  dozen  different  directions  as  the 
various  plans  of  the  various  mem- 
bers    of     his    family    suggested. 
Long     walks     over    the    moors ; 
journeys     to     Tcignmouth,    Tor- 
quay,    and     Exeter;    picnics     at 
every     available     opportunity ; — 
not     a    day     but    had     its    own 
delights.     And       still      the      sun 
blessed   them,  and  the  soft  wind 
from    the   south  kept   the  atmos- 
phere    fresh      without      bringing 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.   95 

the  rain  on  its  wings  that  would 
have  brought  gloom  into  the 
young  faces. 

And  Felicia  was  in  Paradise ; 
for  was  not  Will  the  very  gentlest 
and  most  thoughtful  of  lovers? 
Ready,  if  she  pleased,  to  wander 
away  with  her  alone  along  the 
cliffs  or  over  the  moors  ;  as  ready 
to  join  in  the  boating  and  racing 
and  picnicking,  and  always  unsel- 
fish and  considerate.  Why,  he 
was  an  ideal  lover,  and  the  girl 
held  her  head  high  with  pride  as 
she  walked  by  his  side  and  felt 
him  her  very  own. 

And  Eleanor? 

She,  too,  laughed  and  talked 
among  the  others ;  she  acted 
mermaid  in  the  waves  at  morn- 
ing with  Felicia  and  her  young 
sisters  ;  she  walked  for  miles  over 
the  moors  with  the  boys  with  her 
fine,  free  step ;  she  danced  with 
her  old  lightness  and  spirit  in  the 
evenings,  when,  shore  and  moon- 
light at  last  forsaken,  the  effer- 
vescing spirits  of  the  family  were 
fain  for  yet  another  outlet, 


96     STORY   of   ELEANOK    I  a.m. ;..,.,. 

And   yet,  and   yet— something 
had    come    over   the   girl-some- 

thin- she  would  not  stay  to  think- 
over,  something  she  dared  not 
own  to  herself. 

Why    was    it    that,    while    the 
others   were  in    the    full   swing  of 
mirth    and    noise,    she    would    so 
often  slip  away,  and,  resting  on  a 
fallen  rock,  gaze  and  gaze  at  the 
waste  of  waters  with  eyes  full  of 
a  yearning  other  than  that  vague 
Sehnsucht  which  is  the  gift  of  the 
sea  to  all  true  sea-lovers  ?      What 
drew  her  so  often  to  her  chamber 
window,  where,  when   dance  and 
song  over,  and   the  house  at  rest 
she    would    sit     for    an    hour    so 
quiet   that   she   might  have   been 
a      white-robed       statue    in     the 
moonlight— to    fall   presently    on 
her    knees    by    her    bedside   with 
prayers   to   which  tears  were  not 
strangers?     Why,    when     Felicia 
">    the    bird-like    tones    that  had 
won    Will    Egerton's  heart,  sang 
a  simple  little  song  that  told   of 
lover's   parting— that    trite    story 
that  is  as  old   as  the  world— did 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.   97 


Eleanor  suddenly  feel  a  swift 
rush  of  tears  to  her  eyes,  and  at 
the  same  moment  a  conscious- 
ness that  Will's  were  fixed 
strangely  on  her  face  ?  She  had 
heard  Felicia  sing  that  song  a 
dozen  times  before  with  no  more 
than  a  gentle  emotion.  And 
why — tvliy — did  she  always  know 
instinctively  when  those  dark 
eyes  turned  her  way  ?  And 
whence  came  the  terrible — the 
sweet — no,  the  zvicked  conscious- 
ness that  they  fell  on  her  with  a 
look  they  never  wore  for  any  other 
— not  even  Felicia  ? 

Why,  too,  since  Will  never 
spoke  to  her  one  word  that  the 
whole  world  might  not  hear, 
since  his  manner  to  her  was 
not  only  chivalrous  in  its  respect, 
but  almost  formal,  was  she  aware 
that  under  the  respect  and  def- 
erence ran  a  current  that  told  of 
ardent  forces  as  the  gulf-stream 
warms  the  cold  ocean-waves? 

She  dared  not  guess  ;  it  was 
hideous  disloyalty  to  the  friend 
of    all     her     life     to     give     any 


'';      """  N     '"     EU    VNOB    LAMBERT. 

"amc  to  her  trouble  even  i„ 
her  thoughts.  No;  with  God's 
help  it  would  pass  away—Felicia 

should    never  know— they  would 
be  happy.     This  terrible  visit  to 
Gaulish     would     soon     be     over 
At  home  with  dear  Cousin  Nancy 
she   would    be   able   to   tear  away 
forever    the  magic  web   that  had 
enwound  her;    she   would   forget 
-him.        And      her     pale      face, 
crimsoned    with    shame    at    that 
first  admission  of  the  true  cause 
of    her    misery,    was     hidden    in 
the  coverlet,  the  midnight  waves 
of  her  hair  falling  like  a  pall  over 
her. 

So    passed    away    ten    days    of 
Eleanor's    visit,    days     so    full    of 
suppressed  emotion  and  passion- 
ate feeling  that  they  represented 
years  in  two  lives. 

"Not  up  yet,  dear?"  asked 
Eleanor  one  morning  as  she 
entered  Felicia's  room.' 

"  My  head  aches,"  answered 
her  friend,  turning  it  restlessly 
on  the  pillow  and  lifting  heavy 
eyes  to  Eleanor's  face. 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  tAMBERT.  gj 

"  I'm  so  sorry,  dear ;  shall  I 
bring  you  up  some  tea  ?  And 
I'll  tell  the  boys  not  to  make  a 
noise." 

Felicia  was  subject  to  infre- 
quent headaches,  and  with  her 
customary  unselfishness  took 
them  as  matters  of  course  when 
they  came,  and  made  no  fuss. 

Eleanor  brought  the  tea. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  shall  not  be 
able  to  get  up  to-day — anyhow 
till  the  evening,"  said  Felicia, 
presently.  "  I'm  sorry,  because 
of  the  picnic ;  but  it  can't  be 
helped." 

"  Of  course,  we  shall  put  it 
off,"  began  Eleanor  ;  "  it  would 
be  spoiled  without  you." 

But  Felicia  would  not  hear  of 
such  a  thing. 

"No,  no,"  she  said;  "I 
should  be  dreadfully  sorry  if  it 
were  put  off ;  we  shall  have  time 
for  another  before  you  go.  Be- 
sides, you  know — "  she  smiled 
faintly  —  "the  house  will  be 
much  quieter  if  the  boys  are 
away,   and     I    shall    be    all   right 


IO°STOm    01     ELEANOR    LAMBERT. 

by    the   evening,   I    hope.     Take 
care  of  Will,  Nell.     Give  him  my 

love.  J 

A  faint  flush  rose  i„  Eleanor's 
cheek,  and  for  asecond  Felicia's 
heavy    eyes   dwelt    on    her   with 

""usual       earnestness,      but      she 
dosed  them  without  speaking. 

It  was  a  glorious  day,  the  sea 
a  vast  expanse  of  varying  blue 
green,  and  purple,  under  a 
brilliant  sky  over  which  the 
soft  breeze  sent  cloudy  argosies, 
while  it  crested  the  long  curves  of 
the  waves  with  just  a  line  of 
snowy  foam. 

They    had     eaten     their    rustic 
dinner   among    a  clump    of  trees 
»>    a    field    on    the    cliff-top,    and 
now     with    the  access    of   spirits 
which    satisfied    hunger   had    im- 
parted, various    more  or  less  pre- 
cipitous    and    risky    descents    to 
the    shore    were    being    made    by 
the    boys,    while    the    little    girls 
picked    out    easier  and  more  fre- 
quented    paths.     Dr.    Gray    had 
been    carried    off    in    triumph   by 
the  feminine  portion  of  the  party, 


STORY    OF    ELEANOR    LAMLERT.    IOI 


to  which,  to  the  boy's  loudly- 
expressed  disgust,  Will  Egerton 
also  attached  himself. 

And  so  it  fell  out  quite  natu- 
rally, and  without  any  conscious 
intent  on  either  side,  that  pres- 
ently he  found  himself  walking 
by  Eleanor's  side. 

The  sweet  sea-air,  the  sun, 
the  sky,  the  spring  of  youth 
in  her  own  strong  heart,  had 
all  together  combined  to-day  to 
help  the  girl.  Under  that  glorious 
light  and  shadow,  with  the  ever- 
lasting sky  over  her  head,  and 
the  everlasting  sea  kissing  the 
hem  of  the  land,  the  terror  that 
haunted  the  lonely  watches  of 
the  night  seemed  to  flee  away, 
and  she  felt  strong  in  the  trust 
that  the  forgetfulness  she  prayed 
for  must  come — nay,  almost  able 
to  believe  that  the  feeling  she 
dared  not  name  was  subsiding 
into  nothing  more  ardent  than 
honest  friendship. 

Strong  in  this  hope  she  felt 
equal  to  talking  to  her  com- 
panion  as    they    walked,   with    a 


lOiJTORY    OK    ELEANOR    LAMBERT. 

;i'lt;":1  ease  she  had  long  ceased 
to  feel  with  him. 

Dr.  Gray   and    his    girls    were 
out  of  sight   now,  and   Will   and 
Eleanor  on  their  downward  path 
Beneath  then  lay  the  red  beach 

guarded     by    its    red     cliffs    and 
washed   by   the     incoming    tide 

and    all    around     them    was    the 
sun-warmed  air  freshened  by  the 
soft    breeze.      The    long    ribbons 
at     Eleanor's     throat     flew     out 
upon  it  at  moments  like  a  ship's 
pennon   and    whipped    it  with  a 
shrill  music   that    rang    j„    bill's 
ears    for  many  a     day    to    come. 
Suddenly    one    long   streamer    in 
»ts    fl.ght    was    blown    across   his 
breast  and  clung  there.       Eleanor 
laughed. 

Will  disengaged  it  gently  and 
carrying  it  to  his  lips,  kissed  it 
reverently  as  the  pilgrim  kisses 
the  relic  from  his  shrine. 

Eleanor  did  not  laugh  now 
she  turned  her  head  as  if  she 
had  not  noticed  the  action  ;  but 
she  fell  silent,  and  when  Will 
ventured     some      small      remark, 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.  IO^ 

she  answered  a  little  at  ran- 
dom. 

They  had  reached  the  strand 
now,  and  Will  held  out  his  hand 
to  aid  her  descent  from  the  rock 
that  formed  its  last  step.  As 
she  laid  hers  in  it  their  eyes 
met. 

Both  were  pale,  and  there  was 
a  mute  entreaty  in  the  eyes  of 
each — in  his  for  forgiveness,  in 
hers  for  silence. 

They  walked  slowly  and  in 
silence  along  the  shore,  close 
under  the  overhanging  red  sand- 
stone cliff,  until  Eleanor  paused. 

"  Go  on,  please,"  she  said, 
very  gently,  but  firmly;  "I  will 
sit  down  on  one  of  these  fallen 
rocks  and  wait  until  you  all  come 
back." 

He  obeyed  her  without  a  word, 
and,  turning  away,  had  begun 
to  follow  the  track  of  Dr.  Gray 
and  his  little  girls,  who  could 
be  seen  some  distance  beyond, 
when  there  was  a  strange,  rend- 
ing sound  on  the  face  of  the  cliff. 

In  the  flash  of  an  eye — before 


104      rORY    01    I  1  I   \.\,,k    LAMB]  i   I 


the  girl  had  time  to  realize  what 
had    happened— he     had     seized 
her    in    his    aims    and     torn     her 
away    from     her     resting-place- 
even  as  a   mass  of  the  soft   cliff 
fell,  with  a    dull    roar,    upon    the 
very    spot,    scattering    fragments 
all    around  to    the    hem     of    her 
gown    where    she   stood,   clasped 
tight   to    Will's     heaving    breast, 
while    words    of    passionate    love 
burst  incoherently  from   his  white 
lips   and    his   eyes    devoured    her 
pale  face  like  a  consuming   flame. 
She  raised  her  eyes  to  his. 
"You     saved     my    life!"    she 
whispered,  tremblingly,  and  at  the 
sound   of   her    voice    in    his    ears, 
and   the    passionate    love    on    his 
face  in  her  eyes,  the  whole  world 
•save  themselves  faded  away,  and 
their  lips  met  in  one  long  kiss. 

It  was  the  kiss  that  woke  the 
sleeping  Princess— but  not  to 
happiness    now. 

Eleanor  awoke  and  tore  her- 
self out  of  the  Prince's  arms 
with  a  wild  cry. 

"Oh,    what      have     I     done?" 


Story  of  eleanor  Lambert.  105 

she  wailed.  "  Oh,  Felicia,  my 
dear !  " 

Will  fell  at  her  feet,  white  and 
trembling. 

"  You  have  done  nothing!  "  he 
cried  ;  "  it  is  I — I  alone.  Don't 
blame  yourself! — only  don't  hate 
me  !  Oh,  my  dearest,  my  dearest 
— don't  hate  me  !  " 

There  was  a  call  from  beyond 
the  curve  of  the  shore.  "Father! 
Will !  Nell !  Where  the  dickens 
have  you  all  got  to?"  in  Tom's 
most  stentorian  tones. 

Eleanor  looked  at  Will. 

"  Go  to  them,  please,"  she 
said,  faintly ;  "  I  will  walk  on 
after  Dr.  Gray  and   the  girls." 

The  misery  in  his  face  made 
her  heart  tremble. 

"I  don't  hate  you,"  she  said, 
very  low  ;  "  only  myself." 

A  quiver  passed  over  the  poor 
fellow's  face.  She  turned  and 
walked  slowly  onward. 

In  the  merriment  of  the  walk 
home  in  the  twilight,  the  silence 
of  two  of  the  party  passed  almost 
unnoticed.     The  doctor,  to  whose 


J°<">   STORY  ,.,    ELEANOR  LAMBERT. 

side  Eleanor  clung  as  if  she  felt 
his  strong  kind   presence   a  pro- 
tection    and    defence,   looking   at 
her  pale  face,  said  kindly,  «  Tired, 
my   dear?"    and    on     the     girl's 
affirmative     response,    drew     her 
hand    through    his    arm    in     his 
fatherly     fashion.     Will     loitered 
with  the  latest  of  the  party,  and 
when    the   whole   family   met   in 
the    dining-room,  where    Felicia, 
a  little  pale  still,  but   her  head- 
ache   nearly    gone,    was    waiting 
with  her  mother  for  supper  with 
them,  no  one  could  have  guessed 
what   that  much-belauded   picnic 
had  done  for  two  of  its  members. 
If    in    Felicia's    eyes,    as    they 
fell  on  her  lover  and  her  friend, 
there  still  lingered  something  of 
the    morning's   inquiring  gaze,   it 
passed,    and    presently    she    was 
laughing  with  the  merriest. 

But  the  pitying  moon  has  not 
often  looked  down  on  two  more 
anguished  young  hearts  than 
those  that  outwatched  it  that 
night  under  Dr.  Gray's  kindly 
roof  at  Dawlish. 


VI. 


AN   APPEAL. 

"You  know  you  never  named  his  name  to  me — 
You  know  I  cannot  give  him  up — ah  God, 
Not  up  now,  even  to  yoxi  /  " 

— Robert  Browning. 

Q^OOKED  at  from  the  point 
■v^tfe^  °f  v*ew  °f  the  cynical 
student  of  human  nature, 
there  may  possibly  be  a 
humorous  side  to  the 
fashion  in  which  the 
conventionalities  of  civilized  life 
enforce  a  strict  adherence  to  their 
received  formulas  as  pitilessly 
when  the  heart  is  racked  with 
torment  or  heavy  with  anguish 
is  when  all  goes  merrily  with  it ; 
but  the  experience  is  apt  to  be 
the  reverse  of  humorous  or  pleas- 
ing to  the  sufferer. 
107 


/j,-^ 


I     8       i     I    .    OJ    I  l.i    \  NOB    LAMBERT. 


Eleanor   Lambert    never   knew 
by  what  force  she  lived  through 
the  two  days  after  that  fatal  pic- 
nic  ;    how  she   sat   at    tabic   with 
her  friend  and  her  friend's  lover, 
and  asked  one  for  the  salt  and  the 
other   for  bread— salt  that  might 
well    symbolize     the     tears    that 
flooded   her   heart    but   must   not 
rise  to   her  eyes,  and  bread  that 
choked  her  as  she  tried  to  swallow 
enough  to  prevent  kindly   notice 
of  her  want  of  appetite.      In  that 
large  and   merry   party  there  was 
a   chance   of  silence— broken    by 
feverish  bursts  of  assumed   mirth 
—passing  unheeded,  at    least    for 
a  time. 

She  never  looked  at  Will,  and 
knew  all  the  more  vividly  when 
his  appealing  eyes  were  on  her. 
She  avoided  him  persistently, 
never  giving  him  a  chance  of  a 
word  alone  with  her,  yet  felt 
with  an  anguish  as  of  a  sword 
through  her  heart  that  his  was 
suffering  no  less. 

When    she    thought  of   Felicia 
she  was  torn  with  feelings  mingled 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.  IOt) 

of  remorseful  love  and  pity,  and 
a  torturing  consciousness  of  some 
new  shade  of  expression  in  her 
friend's  blue  eyes  that  told  of 
awakening— what  ?  She  dared 
not  think  what. 

So  two  miserable  days  passed — 
days  of  those  that  sap  the  heart's 
strength  and  mock  at  life  itself. 
The  third  morning  the  boys  were 
all  agog  over  a  plan  for  walking 
to  Exeter,  sleeping  there,  and 
walking  back  the  next  day.  Will 
must  come,  too  ;  Felicia  could 
well  spare  him  for  one  day,  they 
were  sure.  Eleanor  felt  the  swift 
glance  of  his  eyes  on  her  face  ; 
but  she  gave  no  sign.     He  went. 

The  morning  had  been  heavy 
and  unusually  hot,  and  the 
feminine  portion  of  the  family 
had  felt  content  with  bathing  and 
afterward  lounging  on  the  sand 
in  company  with  the  doctor, 
while  Mrs.  Gray  lay  on  her  sofa 
at  home  and  complained  feebly  of 
the  heat.  But  during  the  mid- 
day dinner  clouds  began  to  rise 
and    gather,   slowly  at  first,  then 


no    STORY  01    ELEANOR  LAMBERT. 


more   swiftly,   until     the    greater 
part  of  the  heavens  was  a  mass  of 
lurid  purple.     Then  there  sprang 
up   the   sudden     cool     breeze   so 
gen-rally  the  precursor  of  a  thun- 
derstorm—to     pass    away     again 
as   suddenly.     A   distant    rumble 
was  heard— then   another  and  an- 
other—nearer and  louder.     Then 
the   cloud-rack    was    cleft    by   a 
great     quivering    flash,   and     the 
storm  was  upon  them. 

For    an     hour     it    blazed    and 
crashed,  now  nearer,  now  farther, 
while    the     rain     came     down    in 
sheets;  and   then,  little    by  little, 
it  died  away  as  it  had  come  ;  the 
blue  sky  laughed  out  again  ;  the 
sun    shone,    and    in    his    rays  the 
remnants    of   the   great    vault   of 
cloud  turned   once  more  into  airy 
vapor,  so    whitely    innocent  that 
it    seemed     ungenerous    to     look 
upon  them  as  belated  skirmishers 
from     that      thunderous      cloud- 
army. 

During  the  storm  the  inhabitants 
of  the  sea-side  villa  had  behaved 
after    their    various     kinds.     The 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.     Ill 


doctor,  who  thoroughly    enjoyed 
a    thunderstorm    and    whose    in- 
clination would  have  led  him  to 
watch  its  grand  movements  from 
the    window,  sat    by    his    wife's 
sofa,  holding  her  hand,  since  the 
poor  lady  had  an   intense  dread 
of    lightning,    and    cried    out    at 
every  flash.     The  younger  mem- 
bers   of    the    family     shared    in 
greater     or     less      degree      their 
father's  fearlessness,  and  Eleanor, 
as   she  sat   at  her  bedroom  win- 
dow,   felt    a   certain    strain    of— 
not  comfort,   perhaps,    but  satis- 
faction, in  the  clash  of  the  great 
forces  of  Nature  which  appealed 
to  the  trouble  within  her. 

There  was  a  light  knock  at  the 

door. 

"May  I    come   in,  Nell?  "  said 

Felicia's  voice. 

A  spasm  passed  over  Eleanor's 

face. 

"Of  course!"  she  answered, 
and  her  friend  entered. 

Felicia  drew  a  chair  to  the 
window  and  sat  down,  but  she 
did  not  speak  for  a  moment. 


"-'       rORY  °*  ELEANOR    .    -.,,.,,    r. 

The    silence  began   to  thrill   i„ 
Eleanors   ears. 

"The    storm    is   almost   over  " 
she  said  ;  «  uc  shaI]  haye  a  ,o     » 

evening.  "  7 

"yes;"said  Felicia,  no  more; 
and  Eleanor  heard  the  blood 
dicing  ,n  her  brain  during  the 
Pause  that  .  followed-so  strong 
was  her  instinctive  foreboding  of 
approaching  trouble. 

'Nell,"    said    Felicia    at    last 
vcy  gently,   but  with   an  appeal! 
»"g   intonation    in    the   little   en- 
dearing   name  that  held  a  whole 
history;    «NeIlj  dea,.    ,   ^  ^ 

say-     want   to  ask  you-some- 
thing. 

Nell's   heart    stood    still    for   a 

second,  and  her  hands  grew  cold  • 

she    could    have    died    gratefully" 

that  moment.    But  Felicia  paused 

once  more,  and  she  must   speak. 

.        What  ls  *.  dear  ?  "  she  asked 

in  a  vo,ce  that  seemed  to  herself 

to   come    from    quite  a   different 

part  of  the  room. 

"Nell,"    Felicia    began    again, 
but    now   her  voice    had    lost    its 


STORY   OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.     I  13 

firmness  and  trembled  piteously ; 
"  Nell,  you  are  a  thousand  times 
better,  and  cleverer,  and  more 
beautiful  than  I  am  ;  it  is  natural 
that — people — should  see  that, 
and  admire  and — like — you.  But 
—I  love  him  !  Oh,  Nell,  Nell !  I 
love  him  so  dearly  !  Don't — don't 
take  him  from  me  !  "  Her  voice 
broke  into  sobbing. 

But  Eleanor  was  on  her  knees 
before  her,  her  arms  around  her, 
and  Felicia's  head  fell  on  her 
shoulder. 

Then  Eleanor  spoke,  and  her 
voice  was  like  a  solemn  psalm. 

"  Felicia,  "  she  said,  "  God  is 
my  witness  that  I  will  never  take 
him  from  you — that  I  will  never 
do  you  wrong  or  repay  your  dear 
love  with  treachery.  My  dear, 
my  darling  !  It  is  you  who  are 
a  thousand  times  better  than 
I  !  You  who  are  so  good,  so 
generous,  so  forgiving  !  " 

Her  voice  failed,  and  the  two 
girls  clung  yet  closer  together. 

At  last  Felicia  raised  her  head 
and    smiled    a    tremulous   smile, 


114    STORY  OK  ELEANOR  LAMBERT. 


and  they  kissed  each  other  with 

a  lo»g  kiss. 

"  My  dear  old  Nell  !  "  she  said, 

"  we  will  never  speak  of  it  again." 
When    her   friend    had  left  her 

alone,    Eleanor    knelt    and    cried 

with  passionate  prayer  for  strength 
to  do  right— for  help  to  be  worthy 
of  the  love  and  trust  of  the  friend 
so  true  and  generous  that  they  had 
not  failed  in  that  sharpest  ordeal. 
The  past  was  irrevocable — she 
could  not  alter  it  or  her  remorse 
for  her  share  in  it  ;  but  again 
and  again  she  registered  her  vow 
that,  whatever  the  cost  to  herself 
or  Will— ah,  the  sting  of  thai 
thought  !  —  she  would  prove  in 
the  future  not  unworthy  of  that 
dearest,  sweetest  friend. 

If  only  she  might  go— go  home 
to  Cousin  Nancy— away  from  this 
bewildering  pain  and  divided 
loyalty  !  But  what  excuse  could 
she  find  for  shortening  her  visit 
without  arousing  suspicions  in 
the  minds  of  either  her  hosts  or 
her  cousin?  Well,  Will  was 
away  till  to-morrow  night  ;  before 


STOKY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.  115 


then,  perhaps,  some  reasonable 
excuse  might  present  itself  to 
her  mind. 

The  excuse  did  present  itself, 
but  not  in  any  of  the  possible 
forms  over  which  Eleanor  had 
pondered  in  the  sleepless  hours 
of   the  night. 

On  her  plate  at  breakfast  she 
found  a  letter  from  Allersley,  and 
opened  it  hurriedly,  seeing  that 
instead  of  Cousin  Nancy's  still 
firm  and  masculine  handwriting, 
it  bore  Hannah's  prim  char- 
acters. 

"Dear  Miss  Eleanor,"  she 
read,  "I  think  it  my  duty  to  in- 
form you  that  my  mistress  is  far 
from  as  I  should  wish.  She  was 
took  with  a  specious  of  faint  last 
night,  and  I  have  kep  her  to  bed 
to-day.  I  could  have  desired  as 
Dr.  Gray  was  here,  not  as  Dr. 
Thomas  is  not  a  clever  gentle- 
man in  his  way,  no  doubt,  but  I 
don't  hold  much  with  young  men. 
Miss  Eleanor,  my  dear  mistress 
send  her  love,  and  you  are  not  to 


IM,       I'ORY  OF  ELI    \N'  >B    I  AMU  KT. 


hurry,  but  she  must  con f est  she 
would  like  to  sec  you.  Do  come 
home,  my  dear. 

"  Yours  respectfully, 

"  Hannah  Print." 

Eleanor's  face  blanched  as  she 
read.  It  was  not  the  actual 
facts  the  letter  told  her  that  paled 
her  cheek,  so  much  as  the  simple 
fact  of  Cousin  Nancy  letting  her 
hear  of  her  illness  through  the 
faithful  Hannah;  for  she  knew 
how  her  tender  guardian  would 
shrink  from  alarming  her  without 
dire  necessity.  Moreover,  under 
the  stilted  wording  of  the  missive, 
above  all  in  the  relaxation  of  the 
old  servant's  dignity  in  adding  an 
endearment  to  her  mistress's  title, 
Eleanor  read  a  solicitude  on 
Hannah's  part  that  boded  ill. 
She  handed  the  letter  to  Dr. 
Gray  without  a  word,  and  sat 
silent  and  shivering  as  he  read  it. 
His  face  grew  grave. 

"  I  must  go  directly  !  "  Eleanor 
broke  out  ;  "  by  the  first  train ! 
Oh,     Dr.     Gray,     what     can      it 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.  117 

be  ?  Oh,  Cousin  Nancy,  Cousin 
Nancy !  " 

The  doctor  had  passed  on  the 
letter  to  his  daughter. 

"  Felicia,  dear,"  he  said,  as  she 
finished  it  and  then  put  her  arm 
tenderly  round  her  friend,  "just 
pack  my  bag,  will  you  ?  We  have 
time  to  catch  the  express.  I  will 
go  up  and  explain  to  your  mother. 
Nell,  my  dear  child,  don't  look 
so  white  and  frightened  ;  very 
likely  it  is  nothing.  Come,  drink 
a  cup  of  coffee  and  eat  something, 
like  the  brave  girl  you  are,  and 
then  get  together  any  small 
things  you  want.  Don't  bother 
about  anything  else.  Felicia 
will  send  everything  after  you. 
We  shall  find  my  dear  oltd  friend 
ready  to  laugh  at  us  for  coming, 
I  daresay." 

"Are  you  really  coming,  too, 
Dr.  Gray  ?  Oh,  how  good  you 
are  ! 

"  Why,  you  didn't  think  I  was 
not  going  to  my  old  friend  Anne 
Escote,  when  she  wanted  me?" 
began     Dr.     Gray      with      some 


l  iS    5TOR\   01    i  II    I  '•<  IF    LAMBERT. 

emotion,  and  then  turned  it  off 
with  a  laugh,  "  and  going  to 
leave  my  locum  tenens  in  Hannah's 
clutches !  " 

Eleanor  managed  a  faint  smile. 

The  two  girls  held  each  other 
in  a  close  embrace  as  Eleanor 
started. 

"Say  good-by  for  me  to — the 
others — when  they  come  back," 
she  said,  bravely ;  and  Felicia 
kissed    assent. 


VII. 

THE   BITTERNESS   OF   DEATH. 

"  Mine  honor  keeps  the  weather  of  my  fate. 
— Troilus  and  Crysida. 


FORTNIGHT   had 

passed  since  the  even- 
ing when,  at  sight  of 
her  darling's  face,  and 
the  touch  of  her  tender 
kisses,  Anne  Escote's 
dim  eyes  had  filled  with  the  light 
of  joy  and  love;  while  under  her 
playful  rebukes  of  the  doctor  for 
his  want  of  faith  in  any  one  but 
himself  being  able  to  treat  her 
properly,  her  old  friend  read  a 
great  relief  in  his  presence,  and 
a  knowledge  of  possible  danger 
119 


120    StORY  oi    r.I.F.ANOR  LAMliF.RT. 

to  herself  that  she  would  fain 
conceal  from  the  girl  as  long  as 
might  be. 

In  a  few  days,  to  all  appear- 
ance, she  had  almost  regained 
her  usual  health,  and,  although 
her  active  habits  were  perforce 
laid  by  for  the  present,  she  was  so 
unaffectedly  cheerful  and  bright, 
that  Eleanor's  heart  would  have 
felt  at  case  about  her,  but  for  the 
fact  that  Dr.  Gray  utterly  refused 
to  rejoin  his  family  at  Dawlish. 
He  made  light  of  it  himself,  say- 
ing it  was  too  long  a  journey  to 
make  more  than  three  times  in 
one  month — that,  having  once 
got  back  to  his  work,  he  felt  too 
much  drawn  to  it  to  leave  it 
again — that  he  must  stay  to  pro- 
tect poor  young  Mr.  Thomas 
from  Hannah,  and  so  on. 

But  when  he  made  these  ex- 
cuses, while  Eleanor,  with  the 
quick  comprehension  of  love, 
knew  in  her  secret  heart  that 
her  cousin  felt  grateful  for  his 
decision  in  spite  of  her  having 
urged    him    to    go,  a    sick    appre- 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.  121 

hension  she  dared  not  face  shook 
her  at  moments. 

The  thought  of  Will  kept 
bravely  out  of  sight  was  be- 
ginning to  fade,  she  prayed,  under 
the  pressure  of  anxiety  for  the 
dearest  friend  of  all  her  life. 
Never,  never,  she  vowed  to  her- 
self, should  that  dearest  friend's 
loving  heart  be  troubled  by  the 
knowledge  of  her  darling's  past 
anguish  and  lapse  from  the  high 
standard  of  honor  she  had 
learned  of  her — never,  at  least, 
while  she  was  not  her  usual 
strong  self.  Some  day,  perhaps, 
when  Will  and  Felicia  were 
married,  and  she  had  outlived 
the  last  pang  of  the  serpent-pain 
that  had  twined  round  her  heart, 
she  would  confess  to  that  ten- 
derest  and  noblest  soul  how  far 
she  had  fallen  from  the  heights 
of  loyalty,  and  in  the  counsel 
of  that  reverend  experience  gain 
future  strength.     But  not  now. 

The  last  days  of  September 
were  at  hand.  The  Gray  family 
were  to  return    early   in   October. 


122    STORY   <>|     1  IKaNmR    l.AMIW.RT. 


Will  was  to  leave  a  few  days 
earlier  to  join  a  friend's  shooting 
party  in  Sussex,  Felicia  had 
written.  Her  letters  were  as 
frank  and  loving  as  of  old  ;  no 
trace  of  any  haunting  memory 
of  her  appeal  to  Nell  could  be 
read  between  the  lines — nothing 
but  affectionate  sympathy  for  her 
friend's  anxiety,  and  joy  that  her 
father  had  decided  to  allay  that 
anxiety  by  remaining  at  Allersley  ; 
although  Nell  knew  she  missed 
him  greatly,  and  his  absence 
caused  the  whole  burden  of 
Mrs.  Gray's  exacting  fretfulness 
to  fall  on  her  shoulders. 

"  How  much  more  generous — 
how  much  better  in  every  way 
she  is  than  I  !  '  Eleanor  said 
again  and  again  to  her  own  sad 
heart. 

One  afternoon,  after  Miss 
Escote  had  been  promoted  from 
her  bedroom  to  her  pleasant  up- 
stairs parlor — the  room  in  which 
more  than  twenty-one  years  ago 
she  had  read  Dick  Lambert's 
dying  letter— she  and  Dick  Lam- 


Story  of  eleanor  lambert.   123 


belt's  daughter  sat  talking, Cousin 
Nancy  in  the  great  arm-chair 
drawn  near  the  bright  fire — for 
her  illness  had  made  her  chilly — 
and  Eleanor  on  a  stool  at  her  feet, 
her  beautiful  head  against  the 
old  woman's  knee,  and  one  hand 
holding  the  thin  aged  one  that 
lay  upon  her  neck. 

The  ciri's  face  was  turned  to- 
ward  the  fire,  and  if  the  leaping 
flames  reflected  themselves  in 
eyes  that  were  filled  from  time 
to  time  with  a  tragic  sadness, 
they  told  no  tales. 

There  had  been  silsnce  for  a 
space. 

"  Eleanor,  my  darling,"  said 
Miss  Escote,  at  last,  "  I  want 
to  talk  to  you  a  little." 

A  horrible  pang  contracted 
Eleanor's  heart  ;  the  words  bore 
so  painful  a  likeness  to  those 
Felicia  had  used  so  short  a  time 
ago,  and  seemed  to  presage  as 
great  a  calamity. 

She  turned  her  cheek  against 
the  hand  she  held,  and  Miss  Escote 
heard  her  quickly-caught  breath. 


i  24   story  "i    i  i  i   \  \mk  LAMB]  i   i  . 

"  My  dear,"  she  went  on, 
"you  have  been  my  dearest  joy, 
my  greatest  comfort — more  to 
me  than  words  can  say — ever 
since  the  day  of  your  birth.  I 
want  yon  always  to  remember 
that.  But,  my  child,  sooner  or 
later  we  must  part." 

A  sob  broke  from  Eleanor,  and 
she  cried  passionate]}- : 

"Oh,  Cousin  Nancy!  Cousin 
Nancy!  Don't  say  it!  It  may 
be — it  will  be — a  long  time — " 

"My  darling!  it  may  be;  but 
somehow  I  think  it  will  not. 
Don't  sob  so,  my  dearest  ;  be 
my  brave  Eleanor.  God  may 
let  me  be  with  you  a  little  while 
still.  But,  my  child,  while  1 
have  the  strength  and  the  sense, 
I  want  to  gay  a  few  words  to 
you  about  your  future.  Can  you 
listen  now  ?  " 

Eleanor  fought  down  her  sobs, 
and  assented  brokenly. 

u  You  have  always  known," 
Miss  Escote  went  on,  "  that  this 
dear  home  passes  into  distant 
hands  at  my   death.     I   hope  you 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.  I  25 


have  guessed — although  I  fear 
you  have  never  been  worldly-wise 
enough  to  disturb  your  mind 
about  it,"  she  continued,  with 
a  smile  that  drew  another  sob 
from  the  girl,  "  that  I  should 
not  leave  you  unprovided  for. 
You  will  always  have  a  sufficient 
income,  though  you  will  not  be 
an  heiress." 

"  Oh,  don't !  don't !  "  whispered 
Eleanor. 

"  I  would  spare  you  the  pain, 
my  darling,  if  I  could  ;  but  it  is 
right  you  should  know.  There, 
now  we  have  done  with  business. 
But  there  is  something  else. 
Eleanor,  you  must  not  think  it 
means  anything  worse  than  that 
it  is  right  for  an  old  woman  who 
has  had  her  warning  to  put  her 
affairs  in  order  ;  but  I  have  been 
talking  over  things  with  my  dear 
and  kind  old  friend,  Donald 
Gray.  He  said  in  his  fine,  manly 
way,  that  of -course  your  home 
must  be  with  them ;  he  loved 
you  as  his  own  daughter.  It 
comforted    me  greatly    when    he 


126      PORV  OF  ELI   W  »H   L  1MB]  i   I  . 


a1 


said  it  ;  but,  Eleanor  dear,  I 
have  been  thinking  it  over  since, 
and  I  am  not  so  sure.  You  see, 
when  Felicia  is  married,  things 
will  be  very  different,  and  I  have 
i  strong  presentiment  that  Mrs. 
Gray  would  not  altogether  wel- 
come you.  Men  don't  always 
sec  these  things  in  the  same- 
light  as  women.  What  do  you 
think,  dear?  " 

Eleanor  felt  how  deep  and 
urgent  was  the  anxiety  in  her 
cousin's  mind,  and  her  own  brave 
spirit  rose  and  beat  down  the 
anguish  of  hearing  her  discuss  a 
future  wherein  she  should  no 
longer  be  able  to  cherish  and 
guard  her  darling,  and  enabled 
her  to  answer  with  some  show  of 
calmness. 

"  I  think  you  arc  right,  Cousin 
Nancy  dear.  ("  If  I  might  tell  her 
why  it  must  never,  never  be  my 
home!"  she  cried,  in  her  heart.) 
I  don't  think  Mrs.  Gray  would 
like  it.  She  has  never  been  very 
fond  of  me,  you  know  ;  she  thinks 
you  spoiled  me.     And  io  j  ou  did  ! 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.  127 


my  dear,  dear,  dearest  !  And  so 
I  don't  know  how  to  live  without 
you  ! 

Then  she  dried  her  eyes  once 
more,  and  spoke  more  firmly. 

"I  am  a  wretch  to  cry  and 
make  you  miserable,"  she  said; 
"  let  me  hold  your  hand  tight, 
and  I  won't  again." 

"My  dearest  child!"  mur- 
mured Miss  Escote. 

"There,  now  I'm  going  to  be 
brave,"  said  Eleanor.  "  Cousin 
Nancy,  when — if — when  I  have 
to  part  with  you,  I  think  I  will 
ask  Mrs.  Graham  to  take  me  in. 
I  have  often  laughed  at  her  and 
made  fun  of  her  ;  but  she  is  good 
and  kind — good  and  kind  enough 
to  be  very  fond  of  me  in  spite  of 
my  laughing  at  her  to  her  face 
sometimes ;  and  she  is  alone  in 
the  world.  I  think  she  would 
like  to  have  me  ;  and  she  is — so 
unlike — you,  that  it  would  be 
best " 

The  last  incoherent  words 
came  in  sobs.  But  Miss  Es- 
cote   understood    the    passionate 


i  -      KV  OK  KLEANOR  LAMBERT, 


loyalty  t<>  herself  that  prompte 

tilt   Ml. 

There     was      another     silenci 

while  she  laid  her  disengag<  '1 
hand  <>n  the  girl's  hair,  a\m\  de 
t<  rmined  to  write  that  very  night 
a  few  words  to  Mrs.  Graham, 
asking  her  if,  in  the  event  of  her 
not  distant  death,  she  would  h  el 
inclined  for  her  sake,  and  the 
sake  of  the  girl  herself,  to  give 
Eleanor  the  shelter  of  her  liou.se 
and  protection. 

"  I  think  you  are  right,  dar- 
ling," she  said.  "  Mary  Gra- 
ham is  a  good  woman,  and 
kind-hearted,  and  she  will  give 
you  a  cordial  welcome,  I  feel 
sure,  and  a  home  until  .1-.  I 
pray — you  make  the  happiness 
and  beaut)'  of  some  good  man's. 
Ah,  my  dear  !  to  think  I  shall 
not  see  it  or  him  !  No  ;  don't 
cry,  my  own  dear,  don't  cry. 
I  ought  not  to  have  said  it.  I 
have  had  so  many  blessings." 

Silence  again,  while  Eleanor 
fondled  the  thin  hand  she  held. 

"  Eleanor,"  began   Miss   Escote 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.  1 29 

presently,  "  once  upon  a  time  I 
loved  your  father  very  dearly. 
Did  you  ever  guess  it  ?  " 

"  I  have  thought  it  might 
have  been  so,"  whispered  the 
girl.  "  Tell  me,  dear  Cousin 
Nancy." 

And  so  for  the  first  time  in  all 
the  years  that  had  gone  by  since 
the  days,  in  Eden,  Anne  Escote 
told— told  to  the  child  of  the 
man  she  had  loved — that  old  tale. 
Told,  in  tender  words  that  passed 
lightly  over  her  lover's  forgiven 
faults,  and  paused  upon  his  graces 
and  talents,  on  to  the  end  and  to 
the  story  of  the  girl's  own  beauti- 
ful young  mother,  whose  memory 
Anne  had  kept  fragrant  in  her 
child's  heart. 

"  Poor  Cousin  Nancy  !  "  sighed 
Eleanor,  when  the  story  was 
ended. 

"  No,  not  poor,  dear — richer 
far  than  I  ever  dreamed  of  being. 
Eleanor,  when  Dick  and  I  meet 
yonder,  I  shall  say  to  him  from 
a  full  heart  that  if  he  caused 
me   some   little    suffering  of  old, 


130       rORY  Ol    ELEANOI     1    \M1KRT. 

he  has  made  mc  overflowing 
amends  for  it  in  giving  me  his 
daughter. " 

"  Now,  dear,"  she  added,  a 
little  later,  "you  have  been  in- 
doors all  day.  Go  out  and 
breathe  the  pure,  fresh  air  a  while. 
Hannah  will  be  only  too  happy, 
dear  soul,  to  sit  with  me.  I 
won't  talk  any  more  ;  I  feel  a  little 
tired." 

Eleanor  took  her  way  across 
the  Common.  Its  broad,  open 
expanse  drew  her  to-night  with 
the  sense  of  space  which  the 
wounded  soul  needs  at  moments. 
There  arc  minds  that  under 
pressure  of  joy  or  trouble  crave 
for  such  space — solitary  and 
wild — to  move  in  ;  the  immeasur- 
able leagues  of  ocean,  the  empty 
sky,  the  wind-swept  moors,  speak 
to  them  a  language  their  spirit 
understands. 

Eleanor  walked  slowly  across 
the  deserted  common — her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  golden  glow  the 
sunset  had  left  behind  it,  wherein 
the    evening   star     had    hung  its 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.  131 

slowly-brightening  lamp — a  great 
sense  of  loss  and  pain,  a  passion 
of  love  for  her  cousin  rising  and 
falling  within  her. 

In  the  distance  a  yellow  spark 
was  beginning  to  glimmer  from 
a  cottage  window  here  and  there 
in  the  village  ;  a  carrier's  cart — 
its  tarpaulin  curtain  floating  out 
behind  it  like  some  gigantic  bird 
outlined  against  the  glow — 
jogged  along  the  road. 

Eleanor  walked  on  until  the 
glow  faded  and  the  stars  bright- 
ened into  fuller  radiance.  Then 
she  turned  homeward  once  more. 
In  the  southeast,  tangled  in  a 
web  of  mournful  cloud,  a  mis- 
shapen moon  showed  a  dim  and 
fateful  radiance,  like  a  battered 
shield  of  tarnished  silver.  A 
man's  figure,  indistinct  in  the 
dying  light,  was  approaching 
her  along  the  path. 

What  instinct  brought  that 
irresistible  quiver  to  the  girl's 
brave  spirit — fearless  of  any  dan- 
ger in  that  well-known  spot  ? 

"  You  !  "    she    cried,    with    the 


I'ORV    01    I  ii    INOR   I   \Mi;i  R  i 


<  ry  ol   a    trapped    bird,  as    Will 
Eg(  rton   itood  before  In  i . 
For  a  moment  they  fa(  ed  i  ach 

other  in  the  dusk,  silent  an<I 
motionless.  Then  Will  spoke, 
and  liis  very  voice  seemed 
changed. 

"Nell,"  he  said,  quietly,  but 
with  an  accent  of  strongly-re- 
pressed passion  that  pierced  the 
girl's  very  heart,  "I  suppo 
you  mean  me  to  understand 
that — what  happened  —my  mad- 
ness— was  to  be  between  us  as 
if  it  had  never  been " 

He  paused,  unable  to  go  on, 
and  Eleanor  dragged  a  faint 
"Yes"  to  her  lips,  in  answer 
to  his  implied  question. 

"  Well,  I  have  tried,"  he  went 
on,  beginning  to  lose  control 
over  his  voice  ;  I  have  tried — 
God  knows  how  I  have  tried — 
and  I  can't  !  No,  don't  go — in 
God's  name  let  me  speak  !  Let 
us  talk  it  over  and  find  some 
way  out  of  this  hideous  laby- 
rinth. Nell,  if  it  were  only  my- 
self—if   you    didn't     -oh    Nell! 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.  133 

forgive  me,  dear,  for  what  I  did 
in  my  madness  ;  but  if  we  love 
one  another " 

Then  Nell  found  words. 

"  Will,"  she  said,  in  a  voice 
as  soft  and  sad,  and  as  strong 
in  its  softness  as  the  western  air 
that  breathed  around  them — and 
it  was  the  first  time  he  had 
heard  the  name  from  her  lips — 
"  Will,  it  is  like  dying  now,  and 
I  will  answer  you  as  if  we  were 
dying  in  truth.  I  do  love  you. 
But  I  have  vowed  before  God 
that  I  will  never— never — play 
the  traitor  to  the  woman  who 
has  been  my  friend  since  we 
were  little  children  together.  I 
have  vowed  to  God — and  her — 
that  I  will  never  take  you  away 
from  her." 

"  To  her?  "  stammered  Will. 

"  Yes,  to  her.  Thank  God, 
she  does  not  know — she  never 
shall — how  far  my  disloyalty  to 
her  had  gone  ;  but  she  felt  some- 
thing was  wrong.  The  day  you 
went,  she  appealed  to  me — oh, 
Will,    so    gently,    so    generously, 


1  ;  )   rORY  OF  ELEANOR  ]  \MBERT. 

so  lovingly  ! — she  begged  me  not 
to  take  you  away  from  her.  Oh, 
Will,  dear  Will  !  don't  tempt 
me!  I  would  never — never  — 
have  told  you  this  but  to  show 
you  how  good,  how  worthy  of 
your  love  she  is.  You  and  I — 
oh,  you  and  I  ! — we  are  not  half 
worthy  of  her; — but  you  will  be, 
won't  you  ?  You  will — forget 
me ! "  (Will  broke  into  a  wild 
sob.)  "  You  will  make  her 
happy !  " 

The  wind  went  by  with  a  long 
sigh ;  the  moon  had  hidden  her 
pale  face  behind  the  veiling 
cloud;  the  silence  palpitated 
with   passion  and  pain. 

Then  Will  spoke  once  more. 

"This  is  your  irrevocable  de- 
cision ?"  he  asked,  hoarsely. 

Eleanor  bowed  her  head. 

"  Yes,  "  she  said  ;  and  then, 
"Oh,  Will!  forgive  me  the 
pain  ! 

Will's  voice  broke  as  he 
answered. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  forgive. 
You  arc  an   angel — and   I  am — a 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.  135 

man — that's  all.  I  will  try  to 
obey  you — I  will  try  to  make 
her  happy — what  does  it  matter 
about  myself?  Dear,  let  me 
hold  your  sweet  hand  in  mine 
once  more —  just  once  —  see,  I 
am  quiet  now — and  tell  me  you 
forgive  me  ;  and — I'll  go." 

Eleanor  put  her  hand  in  his, 
unhesitatingly. 

"  I  say  as  you  did — I  have 
nothing  to  forgive.  Good-by, 
Will,  and  God  bless  and  help 
you  now  and  always." 

Will  bent  and  put  his  lips  to 
the  hand  in  his,  without  a  word, 
and  then,  with  an  inarticulate, 
strangled  sound  as  of  words  that 
could  not  force  their  way  up 
from  his  swollen  heart,  he  turned 
and  disappeared  in  the  twilight. 

Two  days  later  Anne  Escote 
passed  painlessly  from  a  gentle 
sleep  to  the  healing  sleep  of 
death,  and  Eleanor  Lambert  was 
alone. 


VIII. 

SEIINSUCIIT. 

"Dear  as  remember  J  kisses  after  death. 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feign  d 
On  lips  that  are  for  others;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret; 
O   Death    in     life,    the   days    that   are  no 
more." 

— Alfred  Tknnyson. 


NNE  ESCOTE  had 
been  laid  beside  her 
father  and  mother  and 
the  little  brothers  and 
sisters  in  the  beautiful 
old  country  churchyard 
at  Allerslcy  ten  years,  and 
Eleanor  Lambert  was  still  with 
Mrs.  Graham. 

After    the    first    overwhelming 
grief,     when     Dr.     Gray   had    in- 
sisted   on    taking     her    home    to 
136 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.  137 

Felicia's  tender  care  for  a  time, 
she  had  shown  a  feverish  eager- 
ness to  begin  her  new  life  that 
was  naturally  attributed  to  the 
keen  sense  of  loss  and  her 
anxiety  to  leave  the  neighbor- 
hood of  her  old  home,  where 
already  an  army  of  workmen 
were  painting  and  papering  anew 
the  rooms  she  knew  and  loved 
so  well. 

Mrs.  Graham  had  hailed  the 
idea  of  her  residence  with  her 
with  delight,  and  in  a  few  weeks 
the  girl,  her  pale  face  the  paler 
for  her  black  dress,  and  her 
dark  eyes  wide  with  suppressed 
emotion,  was  established  as  a 
welcome  inmate  of  the  comfort- 
able house  at  Kensington,  which 
was  the  scene  of  Mrs.  Graham's 
flights  of  fancy  in  bewildering 
changes  of  taste  and  fashion  in 
furnishing,  which  kept  pace  with 
equally  perplexing  changes  in 
the  nature  of  the  objects  of  her 
temporary  devotion  in  literature, 
art,  music,  and  science  ;  each  of 
which  claimed  her  sole  adherence 


I3S    STOR\     "1     1   1 .1   A.\n|;    1    \.MI;l  KT. 

at  revolving  periods  of  different 
duration.  It  mattered  little  that 
she  knew  as  little  of  each  and  all 
of  these  matters  as  a  woman  of 
limited  capacity  might  well  do. 
She  dressed  herself  in  them  as 
she  put  on  her  gown  and  bonnet, 
and  fr<»m  the  same  motive — they 
were  fashionable. 

But    if    her    head    were    not   of 
the  strongest,  her  heart  was  un- 
mistakably good,   and    she  gave 
a  very  warm   and  large  share  of 
it   to  the  beautiful  girl   who   had 
sought  and  found  a  home  with  her. 
It  would  not  be  for  long,  people 
said.     With  a  face  like  that,  and 
a  very  comfortable  little   income 
of   her     own,    it    was    not     likely 
that  Mrs.  Graham's  young  friend 
would  remain   on  her  hands  long. 
Hut    the   months  and  years  went 
by,  and — spite  of  many  admirers, 
and     maybe    a     lover   or    two — 
Eleanor    Lambert     was     Eleanor 
Lambert  still. 

She  lived  to  all  appearance  the 
life  of  the  ordinary  woman  of  her 
day  ;    she  took   her   share  in   the 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.  1 39 

usual  benevolent  and  parochial 
"good  works;"  she  played  her 
part  in  the  gayeties  of  Mrs. 
Graham's  circle,  and  won  a  pla#e 
in  many  hearts  by  a  certain 
gentle  strength  that  was  always 
ready  to  rush  out  in  help  and 
comfort.  Her  eyes  filled  with 
tragic  splendor,  or  softened  to 
tender  beauty  at  music;  she 
laughed  and  wept  at  the  play, 
and  held  her  own  among  her 
fellows  in  the  paths  her  steps 
had  fallen  on.  If  there  were 
anything  wanting  to  her  life,  she 
never  complained  ;  if  her  brave 
bearing  hid  unhealed  wounds ; 
if  her  laugh  might  sometimes 
have  been  more  rightly  tears; — 
well,  she  was  like  many  another 
woman. 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  by  the 
gradually  tightening  bonds  of 
custom,  the  mutual  life  went  on 
unaltered  from  year  to  year.  It 
was  certain  that  to  Mrs.  Graham 
a  break  in  it  would  have  been 
unwelcome  ;  and  if  there  were 
moments    when   Eleanor's   spirit, 


140   STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT. 

trained  in  Anne  Escote's  bracing, 
vivifying  atmosphere,  felt  cramped 
and  prisoned  in  the  narrower  one 
she  now  breathed,  there  never 
came  a  moment  when  it  seemed 
to  her  right  or  kind  to  propose 
a  permanent  change. 

The  passing  years  had  deprived 
her  of  the  loved  and  trusted  friend 
of  her  youth.  Dr.  Gray  had  left 
his  large  family  to  mourn  the 
loss  of  the  best  and  tenderest  <>f 
fathers,  and,  since  they  seemed 
to  inherit  mostly  from  him,  to 
carry  on  his  gentle  and  loving 
forbearance  to  their  mother's 
weakness. 

Since  that  day  Eleanor  had 
never  revisited  the  home  of  her 
3'outh,  for  Mrs.  Gray  and  her 
children  removed  to  Edinburgh 
after  the  doctor's  death,  and 
Eleanor  had  made  her  first 
acquaintance  with  that  glorious 
city  in  her  visit  to  them. 

Hannah  Print,  made  indepen- 
dent by  her  beloved  mistress's 
bequest  to  her,  had  not  been 
long   in    following  her.     The  new 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.  141 

owners  flourished  at  High  Trees  ; 
but  Eleanor  Lambert  was  but  a 
name  to  them,  and  the  dear  old 
home  remained  among  the  un- 
changed and  undying  memories 
of  the  past. 

And  Felicia  ? 

In  her  husband's  northern 
home,  among  the  Yorkshire 
wolds,  Felicia  had  spent  the  ten 
years  of  her  married  life  with  but 
a  very  occasional  visit  to  London, 
where  dwelt  her  friend.  On  those 
rare  occasions  the  two  women 
met  with  all  their  old  affection. 
Hand  in  hand  and  knee  to  knee 
they  sat  and  talked  of  everything 
in  the  world — but  just  one  very 
near  each  heart. 

Will's  name  was  never  shirked 
between  them.  Eleanor  listened 
to  the  wife's  account  of  his 
doings ;  his  craze  for  improve- 
ments on  his  land,  and  among 
his  tenants  ;  his  horse  and  cattle- 
breeding;  his  growing  distaste 
for  town  life,  and  his  love  for  the 
country — and  made  due  comment 
on  it  all. 


142  STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT. 


But  from  the  evening  when 
she  and  her  despairing  lover  had 
bidden  each  other  farewell  on 
Allersley  Common,  they  had 
never  met. 

Her   cousin's  recent  death  had 
been    more    than    enough  excuse 
for   her   absence    at    her    friend's 
wedding,    and     although     Felicia 
had    proved    her    noble    trust    in 
husband   and    friend     by    urging 
the   latter   to   pay   them   a   visit, 
it    may   be  she   had  felt   grateful 
for    Eleanor's    carefully  -  worded 
letter  of  excuse,  and  instinctively 
shrank    from    a    renewal    of    the 
invitation.     Her  hopes  of  mother- 
hood,    more     than     once    disap- 
pointed,   had     been     at    last    ful- 
filled.    Felicia     was    one    of   the 
myriads  of  women   in   whom  the 
love  and  longing   for  children    is 
stronger   than  any  other  love  or 
longing,  and  in  proportion  to  her 
grief  at  the  failure  of    her  hopes 
was    her    delight    in    the    healthy 
and    lovely   boy   who,  two    years 
since,  had  come  to  bless  her,  and 
to    bring   back   something  of  the 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.  143 


old  boyish  brightness  into  Will 
Egerton's  face — which  had  grown 
grave  of  late  years. 

Of  this  baby  -  boy  —  of  his 
beauty,  his  intelligence,  his  daily 
growth  in  all  delightfulness,  his 
father's  devotion  to  him  — 
Felicia's  letters  were  full,  and 
if  she  had  not  feared  the  change 
from  the  clear  air  of  his  native 
country  to  London's  smoky  at- 
mosphere, she  could  scarce  have 
resisted  the  temptation  to  bring 
him  for  her  friend's  approval  and 
sympathetic  delight. 

So  the  days  slipped  away  until 
a  change  came,  and  something 
— she  knew  not  what — woke  up 
in  Eleanor  Lambert's  heart,  and 
would  not  be  stilled  to  sleep. 

Why  is  it,  will  any  adept  in 
the  science  of  the  soul  tell,  that 
however  sternly  one  may  turn 
one's  back  upon  the  past,  and 
bury  it  out  of  sight,  however 
firmly  one  may  close  the  book  of 
life,  one  day  there  comes,  from 
none  knows  where,  a  little  breeze 
of  memory,  and  the  buried   past 


i(|     5T01    •    01    M  I    VNOK    I    \  Ml. I  I    I  . 

is  alive  once  more,  and  the 
closed  book  opens,  and  one  by 
one  its  leaves  flutter  back',  and 
there,  clear  as  on  the  day  they 
were  printed,  lie  beneath  the 
aching  eyes  the  old,  old  stories 
— the  tales  of  love  and  loss,  and 
failed  hopes,  and  foiled  endeavor 
—the  records  of  the  days  that 
are  no  more  ? 

How  did  it  happen  that,  after 
ten  years  of  more  or  less  success- 
ful effort  to  walk  straight  along 
the  narrow  path  of  duty  without 
strayings  of  the  heart  into  the 
old  by-ways  that  had  been  so 
dear  and  fatal,  there  came  a  day 
when  Eleanor  Lambert  felt  that 
her  strength  was  gone,  and  her 
heart  a  waste  of  desolation, 
wherein  walked  the  specters  of 
the  past,  and  refused  to  be  laid  ? 

What  was  altered  in  the  daily 
course  of  her  life,  that  she  should 
feel  all  at  once  that  it  had  be- 
come unbearable?  And  yet  so  it 
was. 

Mrs.  Graham's  vagrant  fancy, 
revolving    in    its    eccentric    orbit, 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.  1  _; 5 

had  recurred  once  more  to  music 
as  its  deity* — a  phase  that  in 
its.  effects  brought  benefit  to 
Eleanor;  for  while  it  lasted,  they 
haunted  concert  -  rooms,  where 
Eleanor  sat  entranced,  while  Mrs. 
Graham's  enthusiastic  comments, 
couched  in  the  jargon  of  the 
hour,  more  or  less  hid  from  her- 
self as  well  as  others  the  fact 
that  she  was  inexpressibly  bored, 
and  that  the  music  which  really 
delighted  her,  and  set  her  kind 
old  head  in  its  irreproachable  cap 
wagging,  was  the  weakly  senti- 
mental ballad  concerning  the 
sailors  that  never  come  home, 
the  choristers  that  never  grow 
up,  or  the  aunts  and  other  female 
relatives  that  live  and  die  un- 
wed ;  which  ballads  her  avowed 
adherence  to  the  higher  forms 
of  the  art  obliged  her  to  dis- 
dain. 

But  to  Eleanor  the  music  was 
the  spell  which  set  her  soul  free 
— with  the  magic  of  a  joy  that  is 
like  anguish. 

What  a  power,  what  a  mystery 


i  [6    STORY  or  El  I. ami. i  i    i 


that  same  magic  of  music  is! 
The  music  of  the  spheres !  the 
heavenly    harpers    of     Paradise! 

the    angelic    host    chanting   their 
hymns,  of    rejoicing!       What    do 
they    all    mean    to    us    mortals, 
whose     earthly     music     at      its 
sweetest       "tells       of       saddest 
thought,  "      and     whose     noblest 
songs  of  triumph  evoke  a  passion 
that  is  quenched  in  tears?     No; 
the  music  of  heaven  must  needs 
be    very   different   to   that    which 
lifts  the  soul  into  space  from  this 
low    earth,    or   spirits    but    lately 
flown    into    those  higher   regions 
must  surely  miss  the  accustomed 
yearning  in  the  strains,  or  endow 
them  with  it. 

It  was  in  the  last  days  of  June, 
and  the  two  were  present  at  a 
magnificent  pcrformace  of  Ber- 
lioz's "  Faust." 

Eleanor  had  been  sitting  spell- 
bound, as  Marguerite's  last  song, 
instinct  andnlive  with  its  passion- 
ate longing  for  her  lost  lover— to 
see  him  but  for  a  moment — to 
die    with    his    kiss   on  her    lips— 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.  147 

thrilled  and  shook  the  silence  ; 
her  eyes  shining  and  dilated  ; 
her  lips  just  parted  with  flutter- 
ing breath  ;  every  pulse  rising 
and  falling  with  the  strains, 
and  a  passion  of  despairing 
sympathy  in  her  heart. 

The  song  ended,  leaving  a 
pulsating  vibration  in  the  air. 
Mrs.  Graham  forgot  her  role  for 
a  moment. 

"  My  dear, "  she  whispered, 
audibly,  after  the  burst  of  ap- 
plause which  followed  the  song 
had  subsided,  "did  you  notice 
Madame  Sombra's  dress  ?  That 
kind  of  classical  upper  drapery 
would  just  suit  you." 

"No,  I  didn't  notice  it," 
stammered  Eleanor,  brought 
back  bewilderingly  to  earth. 

It  was  unpleasant,  but  by  no 
means  so  unusual  a  performance 
on  her  old  friend's  part — for  had 
she  not  smiled  good-humoredly 
a  hundred  times  over  similar 
downfalls? — that  Eleanor  should 
feel  so  fierce  a  revolt  in  her  soul 
as  to  make  her  tremble. 


I  .|.S  STORV    01     ill    INOR    LAMBERT. 

I5ut  her  toubles  fur  that  day 
were  nut  yet  over. 

That  evening  Mrs.  Graham 
was  to  entertain  some  friends, 
and  it  chanced  that  one  of  the 
guests  -a  girl  with  a  sweet,  fresh 
young  voice — among  other  songs 
chose  the  simple  little  bal- 
lad of  the  parted  lovers  that 
Felicia  had  sung  years  ago  at 
Dawlish. 

As  Eleanor  listened,  the  room 
around  her  with  its  occupants 
faded  away  ;  those  old  days  stood 
up  alive  once  more,  and  she  was 
walking  with  Will  upon'  the 
cliffs  ;  her  ribbon  fluttered  across 
his  breast  ;  he  tore  her  from 
beneath  the  falling  rock ;  his 
arms  were  round  her — and  the 
tears  were  running  down  her 
face. 

Fortunately  she  was  in  the 
shadow  of  a  curtain,  and  before 
the  song  was  over,  and  attention 
turned  her  way,  she  had  slipped 
from  the  room  to  recover  her 
composure. 

But    that    night,  as   she  sat  at 


STORY    OF    ELEANOR    LAMBERT.    149 

the  window,  looking  out  into  the 
summer  sky,  which  even  London 
air  could  not  rob  of  its  star- 
sprinkled  depths,  even  until  the 
dawn  appeared  in  the  east,  the 
waves  of  memory  broke  the 
bounds  she  had  built  for  them, 
and  flooded  her  soul. 

In  the  end,  when  memory  had 
done  its  worst,  and  the  waters 
had  gone  over  her  head,  there 
came  a  yearning  to  see  once  more 
the  old  home,  the  house  where 
she  was  born,  where  her  mother 
had  died,  and  Cousin  Nancy  had 
been  father  and  mother  and  all 
the  world  to  her ;  to  climb  the 
steep  churchyard  path,  and  lay 
her  head  upon  Cousin  Nancy's 
grave,  as  she  had  laid  it  in  her 
lap  of  old  ;  a  longing  so  intense 
that  it  seemed  impossible  to  de- 
lay its  fulfillment  until  morning. 
But  when  once  she  had  made 
her  plan  and  settled  its  details, 
weariness  came  over  her,  and 
she  crept  to  bed,  and  slept  till 
the  maid  entered. 

After  the    first  morning   greet- 


150  STORY    'ii      111    \;,,.|-     1    \  >ii:i  |;|. 

ing,  Eleanor  broke  the  propo- 
sition to  her  hostess  without 
delay. 

"  I  am  thinking  of  going  down 
to  Allersley  to-day,"  she  began. 

"  To  Allersley  !  '  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Graham.  "  For  the  day  ! 
Such  a  journey  as  that  ?  You 
never  told  me  you  were  thinking 
of  going  there  !  " 

"  I  have  only  thought  of  it 
since  last  night,"  answered 
Eleanor,  with  a  smile.  "  I  have 
taken  a  sudden  fancy  to  see  the 
old  place  again,  and  the  weather 
is  so  beautiful,"  she  finished, 
lamely. 

"  But  such  a  journey  in  one 
day  !  "  expostulated  Mrs.  Graham. 

"  I  think  of  staying  a  night, 
or  perhaps  two,  at  Hollisford, 
since  I  am  not  sure  of  finding 
accommodation  at  Allersley.  The 
'  King's  Head '  used  to  be  the 
best  hotel ;    I  daresay  it  is  still." 

"  But,  my  dear,  you  are  too 
young  and  too  good-looking  to 
be  going  about  to  hotels  by  your- 
self ;  do  consider." 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.  15I 


Eleanor  laughed. 

"  I  am  not  so  young  or  so  good- 
looking  as  all  that,"  she  said. 
"  Don't  be  afraid,  dear  Mrs. 
Graham.  I  will  be  very  discreet. 
It  is  a  very  respectable  and 
homely  old  place,  if  I  remember 
rightly.  We  used  to  have  our 
parcels  left  there  when  we  drove 
in  from  Allersley  for  shopping. 
It  is  in  the  Market  Place,  if 
there  should  be  any  letters  to 
send  on  to  me." 

So  Eleanor  had  her  way,  and 
that  afternoon,  having  taken  her 
room  at  the  old  inn  in  the  old 
town  that  looked  so  familiar  and 
yet  so  strange,  she  hired  a  car- 
riage and  was  driven  along  the 
country  road,  whose  every  curve 
she  knew  by  heart,  to  the  village 
which  was  still  the  dearest  spot 
on  earth  to  her. 

And  now,  when  she  had  reached 
it  and  dismissed  the  carriage 
with  orders  to  wait  at  the  village 
inn  for  her  return  at  no  fixed 
hour,  her  heart  trembled  with  a 
vague    unwillingness    to    seek    at 


152  STORY   OF    ELEANOR   LAMBERT. 

once    the    goal    of    her    sudden 
journey— an  instinctive  shrinking 
from  the  sight  of  alterations  she 
might  find  in  that  beloved  home  ; 
and    leaving    the    village    at    the 
end    farthest    from     High    Trees, 
she  loitered  for  an    hour    among 
the     blossoming      hedgerows     of 
the    embowered    lanes,    now    and 
again  leaning  on  gates  where  she 
had    leaned    of    old,    gazing  with 
dim  eyes  over  meadows  in  which 
the    hay-makers    were     at    work, 
at  the  far-off  spires  of  the  distant 
town,  and  living  over  again  with 
sharp  pangs  of  loss  and  grief  the 
days  of  childhood  and  youth. 

At    last    she   turned    back,   and 

wending    her    way    through    the 

village,    beneath   the   old    church, 

high   up  among    its  graves,   past 

the  inn,  and   the   forge,   and   the 

school-house,     she     turned     into 

the    little    lane,    from    which    she 

knew      that      across      a      bit     of 

meadow-land     she     should     gain 

the  nearest  view  of  the  old  house. 

amid     its     tall     elms,   to    be    had 

without  approaching  its  entrance 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.  153 


more  closely  than  she  felt  inclined 

to  do. 

She  had  reached  the  well- 
remembered  gate  in  the  hedge 
now;  but  for  a  moment  she  laid 
her  head  on  its  topmost  bar  and 
hid  her  eyes — she  dared  not 
look. 

Then  once  more  she  stood 
erect,  and  then  she  was  clutch- 
ing the  gate  hard,  and  gazing 
and  gazing  as  if  she  knew  not 
how  to  tear  away  her  eyes. 

There,  unchanged,  its  mellow 
walls  glowing  in  the  golden  light, 
surrounded  by  its  immemorial 
elms,  it  stood,  its  twisted 
chimneys  breathing  here  and 
there  a  light  haze  of  opaline 
vapor  that  told  of  habitation 
and  domestic  life — and  home  ! 
Not  her  home  ever  again  ! 

Above  the  slender  feathery 
heads  of  the  uncultivated 
meadow-grass  before  her  flittered 
a  myriad  of  tiny  wings,  their 
gauzy  films  aglow  in  the  sun's 
level  beams,  the  whole  field  en- 
chanted into  magical  beauty. 


154  STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT. 

But   Eleanor's  eyes,  unheeding, 
never  left  the  house. 

It    was    not    of    Will    Egerton 
she  thought  now,  nor  of  love  or 
love's    failure ;    it    was    of  Cousin 
Nancy— Cousin     Nancy,    in     her 
black   gown    and   her   soft    laces, 
walking  over   the   smooth   sward 
of     that     lawn  ;     Cousin    Nancy, 
holding     the     little     hand      that 
clung    to    her,    and    leading    the 
childish    steps  to  the  small   plot 
that   was   to   be  the    child's    very 
own;  Cousin  Nancy,  the  dearest, 
noblest,  tenderest  soul  in  all  the 
world. 

There,  across  the  common 
behind  her,  ran  the  path  where 
Will  and  she  had  said  their  last 
farewell ;  but  she  would  not  tread 
it  afresh  to-night  ;  to-morrow, 
perhaps,  she  would  return  and 
make  that  sad  pilgrimage.  To- 
night no  memory — not  even  of 
Will— should  reign  beside  the 
thought  of  Cousin   Nancy. 

At"  last,  with  lingering  eyes, 
she  tore  herself  away  from  the 
gate      and     retraced      the      lane. 


STORY  OP  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.  155 

Then  she  climbed  the  church- 
yard path  and  took  her  way, 
amid  graves  she  had  known 
all  her  life,  and  newer  ones  that 
had  arisen  since  her  time,  to 
the  well-known  corner  where, 
among  many  dead  and  gone 
Escotes,  her  own  mother  and 
Cousin  Nancy  lay  side  by  side. 

There  she  knelt  and  laid  her 
cheek  to  the  dear  name,  and 
dropped  her  head  upon  the  turf 
and  kissed  it  with  fast  falling 
tears. 

When  she  rose,  and,  having 
found  the  carriage,  drove  through 
the  sweet  June  twilight  back  to 
the  town,  she  felt  that  in  that 
outburst  of  long -pent -up  grief 
and  pain,  something  of  the  over- 
whelming bitterness  at  her  heart 
had  passed  away — as  if  in  truth 
she  had  laid  her  head  on  Cousin 
Nancy's  lap. 


IX. 


"  THE   REST   IS   SILENCE.' 


'I  end   with — '  Love  is   all    and  Death   is 
nought  !  '  quoth  she." 

— Robert  Browning. 

DEAREST  NELL, 
— Will  has  had  a  bad 
fall  from  his  horse. 
They  tell  me  there  is 
no  hope.  He  wants 
to  see  you.  Come  as 
soon  as  possible. 

"  Your  loving 

"  Felicia." 


Such  was  the  letter — directed 
to  her  at  Kensington  and  re- 
addressed  in  Mrs.  Graham's 
writing — that  Eleanor  Lambert 
found  awaiting  her  when  she 
went  down  to  breakfast  on  the 
156 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.    I  5  7 

morning      after      her      visit      to 
Allersley. 

The  blow  was  so  crushing  in 
its  suddenness  that  for  the 
moment  she  felt  no  pain.  It 
was  not  until  she  had  torn  the 
meaning  out  of  the  railway 
guide,  and  discovered  that  there 
was  a  train  in  half  an  hour  which, 
by  slow  stages  and  many  chang- 
ings  of  line  on  its  tortuous  way, 
would  enable  her  to  reach  the 
station  nearest  to  the  Egertons' 
Yorkshire  home  by  six  o'clock, 
that  she  began  to  feel  the  agony 
of  life  creeping  back  to  her  be- 
numbed heart.  But  she  must 
not  let  herself  think  of  it  yet. 
Not  until  the  telegram,  telling 
Felicia  of  the  delay  in  her  receiv- 
ing her  letter  and  announcing 
her  coming,  had  been  written 
and  dispatched  ;  not  until  in  the 
solitary  compartment  she  had 
bribed  the  guard  of  the  train  to 
reserve  for  her  sole  tenancy,  she 
felt  the  iron  wheels  beneath  be- 
gin to  grind  their  hoarse  tune, 
did  she  dare  to  face  the  calamity 


I58  STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT. 

Felicia's  few  words  had  told  with 
so  overpowering  a  simplicity. 

"Will  dying— Will  dying!" 
The  words  set  themselves  to  the 
song  of  the  wheels  and  beat  in 
her  brain.  "  He  wants  to  see 
you — he  wants  to  see  you."  After 
ten  years — and  this  the  end  of 
all!  ' 

The  fire  in  her  brain  burned 
up  the  tears.  And  through  the 
long  hours,  as  meadow  and  wood 
and  stream  and  hedgerow  slipped 
past  her;  through  maddening 
waitings  at  dreary  wayside  sta- 
tions, and  only  less  maddening 
creepings  of  long-expected  trains  ; 
even  until  passing  imperceptibly 
into  the  wider  and  wilder  scenery 
of  the  Yorkshire  wolds,  one 
agonizing  longing  mingled  with 
and  overpowered  every  other 
feeling — that  she  might  only  be 
in  time ! 

The  delay  in  the  delivery  of 
Felicia's  letter  had  been  so  short 
— only  a  few  hours.  Only  a  few 
hours— but  hours  to  the  dying, 
how  much  they  mean  ! 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.  159 

Her  thoughts  circled  and 
circled  round  that  terror  until 
it  grew  a  black  blot  before  her 
eyes  and  the  wheels  took  up  their 
refrain  once  more.  "  He  wants 
to  see  you — he  wants  to  see 
you."  And  then  out  of  the 
past  arose  the  ghostly  vision  of 
another  journey,  and  the  cruel 
wheels  changed  their  song. 
"  Will  Egerton,  at  your  service," 
they  beat  out  in  their  iron  music, 
repeating  the  words,  now  louder, 
now  softer,  until  Eleanor  was 
fain  to  fall  on  her  knees  and  pray 
them  to  cease. 

The  sun  was  declining  toward 
the  west  when  at  last  that  terrible 
journey  came  to  an  end,  and  the 
train  stopped  at  a  small  wayside 
station.  As  Eleanor  alighted,  a 
groom  approached  her,  and 
touching  his  hat,  asked  if  she 
were  the  lady  for  Wakeford 
Manor;  and  on  her  assent,  he 
led  the  way  to  a  dog-cart  which 
stood  waiting,  and  in  a  couple 
of  minutes  they  were  bowling 
swiftly  along  the  road. 


l6o  STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT. 

Sick  dread  of  what  the  answer 
might  so  probably  be  froze  the 
question  that  was  racking 
Eleanor's  heart.  The  man  kept 
the  deferential  silence  of  his 
kind. 

Eleanor's  pale  lips  parted 
once — twice,  but  no  sound  would 
come.  The  third  time  her  voice 
obeyed  her. 

"  Mr.    Egerton— "    she   began  ; 

"  is  he " 

"  Very  bad,  ma'am,"  said  the 
groom,  with  an  accent  of  sorrow 
in  the  words  that  somehow  sent 
a  faint  ray  of  comfort  into  the 
tortured  heart  of  the  woman 
beside  him.  "  He  can't  last  the 
night,  they  tell  me." 

A  choked  gasp  was  the  only 
comment. 

A  long  gray  house — its  many 
windows  aglow  with  the  sun's 
rays— came  in  sight ;  a  pretty 
child  at  the  lodge-gates  dropped 
a  curtsey  to  the  lady  as  she 
passed,  and  as  the  dog-cart  drew 
up  at  the  foot  of  the  long  flight 
of    stone      steps      and      Eleanor 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.  l6l 

alighted,  Felicia  appeared  at  the 
hall  door,  and  the  friends  were 
in  each  other's  arms,  without  a 
word  from  either. 

Felicia  drew  her  friend  into 
a  pretty  morning-room  entered 
from  the  great  hall,  and  then 
for  a  moment  Eleanor  clung  to 
her  with  a  passionate  embrace, 
before  they  stood  apart  and 
looked  into  each  other's  faces — - 
Felicia's  pale  and  worn  with  grief 
and  watching,  Eleanor's  dark  an- 
guished eyes  making  hers  seem 
ashen  in  hue. 

There  was  silence  for  a  space, 
then  Eleanor  spoke  painfully. 

"  There  was  never  so  generous 
a  woman  on  the  face  of  the 
earth  as  you,  Felicia." 

A  wan  smile  flickered  over  the 
wife's  white  face. 

"  That  is  what  Will  said — and 
bade  God  bless  me  for  it — when 
I  told  him  this  morning  of  my 
letter  to  you  and  your  telegram. 
I  dared  not  until  I  knew  you 
were  really  coming.  Ah,  Nell 
dear !     what     a    mess    we     have 


l6_>    SlnkY   01    ELEANOR   LAMBERT. 


made  of  it  all  between  us !  I 
wonder,  if  I  had  had  any  proper 
pride  in  those  old  days — if  I  had 
let  him  go — how  it  would  have 
ended." 

Eleanor  gave  a  wild  moan. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear ! 
Don't,  don't  !  "  she  cried.  "  I 
wish  I  had  died  then  to  spare 
you  this  !  " 

Felicia's  arm  went  round  her. 

"Nell,"  she  said,  very  gently, 
"  you  and  I  loved  each  other 
long  years  before  we  either  of 
us  knew  Will  Egerton  existed. 
Dear,  don't  let  us  exaggerate. 
Don't  pity  me  too  much.  I 
have  had  some  happiness.  You 
don't  suppose  Will  could  ever  be 
anything  but  tenderness  and 
gentleness  itself  to  his  wife?  If 
I  have  known  that — I  was  not — 
always  —  first  in  his  love  —  " 
She  paused  and  sighed  patheti- 
cally. "  Well,  I  could  always 
trust  him  utterly,  and  how  many 
wives  can  say  that  ?  " 

She     softly     turned    Eleanor's 
face  toward  her  own. 


STORY  OF  ELEANOJ     LAMBERT.    163 


"No,  Nell,"  she  went  on,  "  I 
hink  after  all  you  have  had  the 
■vorst  of  it,  for  I  have  the 
;hild." 

"  Yes,  thank  God !  you  have 
:he  child,"  echoed  Eleanor,  with 
the  solemn  ardor  of  a  prayer. 

"  I  suppose  I  am  very  feeble 
and  poor-spirited,"  said  Felicia, 
after  another  pause,  and  with 
again  the  faint,  wan  smile; 
"but  I  couldn't  help  it.  He 
suffered  so  terribly  the  first  day, 
Nell — he  scarcely  knew  what  he 
was  saying.  But  when  I  heard 
him  once  or  twice  whispering 
your  name—'  Nell  !  Nell  ! ' — it 
was  as  if  my  little  Donald  were 
ill  and  in  pain,  and  crying  for 
something  I  could  give  him.  I 
couldn't  help  it,  Nell  ;  I  wanted 
him  so  dreadfully  to  have  what 
he  wanted  before  he  died." 

"Felicia!"  cried  Eleanor — no 
more  ;  but  the  single  word 
vibrated  with  a  passion  of  love 
and  worship. 

"  Dr.  Lomax  has  not  left  him 
since,"    said    Felicia.     "Will  has 


164    STORY  <>!•    ELEANOR  I    \Mia.Kl-. 

seemed  to  be  in  a  sort  of  uneasy- 
sleep  the  greater  part  of  the 
afternoon,  and  he  took  no  notice 
when  I  came  away  to  meet  you. 
But  he  may  wake  any  moment. 
Come  up-stairs  with  me  and  take- 
off your  hat  and  bathe  your  poor 
face,  and  I  will  go  in  and  see  if 
he  is  awake.  " 

Ten  minutes  passed  and  Felicia 
came. 

"  He  is  awake  and  conscious, " 
she  said,  "  but  very  weak.  Come, 
Nell  dear,  I  have  told  him  you 
are  here." 

"  Nell  !  " 

"Will,  oh,  Will  !" 

No  more  words,  but  a  long, 
long  gazing  into  each  other's 
eyes — a  silence  that  told  every- 
thing. 

The  last  crimson  glow  of  sun- 
set flushed  the  check  of  the  dying 
man  and  cast  a  glory  on  the 
woman's  raven  hair  where  she 
knelt  beside  him  ;  but  their  eyes 
never  fell  from  that  intense  un- 
spoken speech. 


STORY  OF  ELEANOR  LAMBERT.  165 

The  glow  faded,  and  with  a 
sob  Eleanor's  head  fell  forward 
on  the  hand  she  held. 

Then  Will  spoke. 

"  It  was — well  worth — dying 
for,"  he  panted. 

They  were  Will  Egerton's  last 
words. 


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